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THE PROMISED LAND 


ANI) 


OTHER TALES, 


/ 


CHARLES E. WATERMAN 



Fugitive stories republished from newspapers and magazines. 


MECHANIC FALLS, MAINE, 

LEDGER PUBLISHING COMPANY. 
1897. 




















. i. . . V-. \ 








CONTENTS. 

THE PROMISED LAND , 5 

AMONG THE DUMMIES, 12 

THE INTER R UP TED SONG, 21 

A MESSAGE PROM THE ENEMY, . 27 

THE E VOL UTION OF A TRAMP, 33 

THE FAN A TIC HERALD, 41 

THE CENT UR Y- CL O CRT, 4 g 


THE EL WIN CLAIM, 54 

URIAH UPTON, 61 

A BLIGHT IN THE LAND OF THE LOTUS, 66 

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH, 70 

A SLA VE OF BACCHUS, 77 

LEGEND OF SE ARCHACRE, 81 














THE PROMISED LAND. 


I GENESIS. 

Seventy years ago a young woman, 
an amateur sculptor, attracted by the 
great fountains of art, visited Italy. At 
the present time the visit would hardly 
be worth noting ; but at that time Eu- 
ropean tours were not so common. The 
same result followed her visit that fol- 
lows that of many young women at the 
present time, — marriage, — and she, 
like others, was a dupe to one of the 
same class of fortune seekers, — a bank- 
rupt nobleman. She was attracted by 
rank and a marble palace ; he by mon- 
ey. In a little while, however, he was 
as poor as ever, and far more dissipated. 
His wife’s money gone, he cared little 
for her or their baby boy. 

The first year or two Marion Har- 
low’s married life was a long holiday, 
filled chiefly with novelty ; but at the 
end of that time she found herself neg- 
lected and even abused. To be sure 
she still was the wife of a nobleman ; 
but the title was an empty one. She 
pined for her native land ; but her 
pride kept her from it. At length she 
returned to her old love for art ; lived 
for that and her little boy. After a 


year of aimless work, her fancy struck 
a group, which she called “The Prom- 
ised Land.” The image of this was in 
her mind only, not worked out. The 
languor of the country seemed to have 
fastened itself upon her, for she worked 
little and talked much to her child, 
now her only companion, of what this 
group would be when finished. Thus 
time went on for two years, and the 
statue was still a shapeless piece of clay ; 
then came an interruption. 

One day the nobleman took his lit 
tie son out for a walk, — an unusual 
thing, — and came back without him. 
He said he had lost him. He had left 
him playing in a park and when he 
had come back the boy was gone. The 
mother was nearly distracted. Search 
was made after the lazy Italian fashion 
but no trace ot him could be found ; 
and from that time forth he was to the 
mother as a dead child. 

The loss of her only hope threw the 
mother into a sickness from which she 
never recovered, and the shapeless 
piece of clay crumbled into dust. Like 
Moses of old, she had caught but a 
glimpse of the Promised Land. 


6 


THE PROMISED LAND , 


II EXODUS. 

At the time of the disappearance of 
this boy, a suspicious looking craft lay 
in the harbor of Naples. She had a 
low black hull, sharp prow and schoon- 
er-rigged, rakish masts. From her 
looks she might have been a pirate ves 
sel ; but as she had been properly en- 
tered as a merchantman the lazy Nea- 
politan government did not care to 
watch her further and at the close of 
a beautiful day sailed out into the blue 
Mediterranean. The commander of 
this craft was a tall, lithe, sharp-featured, 
black-eyed man, about 60 years old, 
with a complexion deeply bronzed by 
tropical suns. From the skillful hand- 
ling of his vessel one could see in him 
the model sailor — swift to take in a 
situation and ready to act upon it. The 
man had been a slaver all his life. He 
had begun this nefarious traffic when 
he was at liberty to land a cargo of 
savage Africans under that emblem of 
the free, the stars and stripes ; he land- 
ed slaves when fines were levied upon 
his cargoes ; and he still carried on the 
business after Congress had made it 
piracy and punishable with death. 

But a check was put upon his actions. 
Once when leaving the coast of Africa 
after the passage of this act, he had 
been chased by a frigate and there was 
enacted one of those dark scenes of 
human depravity — a scene depicted by 
Turner in colors never to be forgotten. 
The innocent human beings were led 
up from the dark hold of the vessel 
and tied one’s hand to another’s foot, 


and cast overboard to feed the hungry 
sharks that followed the ship. The 
slaver by this lightening of its burden 
and the darkness of night escaped ; but 
the fright produced upon the command- 
er, hardened as he was, deterred him 
from longer continuing in the business. 
This is how it happened that Capt. 
Winslow and his suspicious-looking ves- 
sel was in the harbor of Naples playing 
the role of merchantman. 

Now that he is fairly out at sea, we 
will give the reader a glimpse of his 
cargo. A burly officer with a dish of 
sea biscuit is making his way into the 
hold of the vessel The dark depths 
are filled with bales of miscellaneous 
merchandise ; but immediately under 
the decks are crowded 150 children. 
These cling together timidly, fearing 
the oaths and blows of the approach 
ing officer. Among them are children 
in rags and in the rich vesture of 
princes, huddled together in the most 
democratic fashion. This is the cargo 
that meets our eyes and these are the 
questions involuntarily asked : “Who 
are they? How came they here? and 
for what purpose?” 

The first question is easy to answer, 
they are Italian children. The second 
is not so easy, for we know not how to* 
account for the appearance of many. 
Some were bought of drunken parents, 
and some were kidnaped as they strolled 
on the marble quay where the vessel 
had been moored. To answer the 
third question we have to disclose the 
dark workings of an evil mind. The 


AND OTHER TALES. 


7 


burly officer we have just seen had long 
been the hired mate 1 of the slaver. A 
princely revenue had been the price of 
the man’s soul ; but with a pirate’s 
crime hanging over Capt. Winslow’s 
head, there were not wanting interested 
persons who would give a larger sum 
as a witness fee. Of this man alone 
Capt. Winslow was afraid. The rest 
of his crew he could cower ; and for 
this reason he sought to make this man 
the principal in one of the most Satan- 
ic plots of the age. 

The mate was a natural musician ; 
yet it did not seem to soften his sav- 
age disposition. With much tact and 
skill the captain suggested the en- 
slaving of Italian children as street 
musicians ; and so well did he play his 
part that the mate considered the plot 
a creation of his own. For a share in 
the profits Capt. Winslow and his ves- 
sel was chartered to carry out this ne- 
farious scheme. We can not under- 
stand how a man could be so debased 
as to carry on a war of conquest among 
innocent children. There may be a 
dash of adventure in capturing full 
grown savages, but where the excite- 
ment in imprisoning helpless children, 
almost infants? 

There was little to note in the voy- 
age, except that no adverse wind blew 
nor avenging storm overtook the swiftly 
sailing vessel ; and in a month she had 
safely landed her cargo and introduced 
her demoniac system in New York. 
Our story has nothing further to do with 
Capt. Winslow, but we will add for the 


benefit of any interested reader, that 
child- stealing had not excitement 
enough for him to longer continue in 
it ; and he went back to his old busi 
ness of catching Africans. On one of 
these voyages he paid the penalty of 
his rashness by being captured and 
hanged. 

It would be interesting to relate the 
feelings and the trials of these little 
prisoners ; but it is not our purpose, as 
only one of them enters into our story. 
The mass of these poor little creatures, 
like the mass of humanity in general, 
lived out their troubles and died — and 
although it may seem hard, it is doubt- 
less among the wise edicts of God — 
unwept and unknown. 

There is one, however, whose life 
forms a part of this narrative. When 
captured, his dress and manners indi- 
cated that he was of better parentage 
than most of his fellows ; but in a few 
months both had degenerated to the 
common level. At first he loudly be- 
moaned his lost freedom, his mother 
and his home ; but stripes and labor 
soon depressed his spirits to a proper 
condition of servitude. Having a nat- 
ural musical talent and a sweet child- 
like treble, he was at once instructed 
on the harp, and might have been seen 
and heard, both by sunlight and gas- 
light, for many years in the streets of 
New York. There were sounds which 
he uttered that the hurrying throng on 
the street did not hear, — the shriek 
when the decending lash found the 
naked flesh of his back, the low moan 


s 


THE PROMISED LAND. 


ing which preceded and accompanied 
his slumber, — nor marked they his 
languid step when the morning sun 
woke the slumbering city, and he went 
forth to another day of existence. For 
awhile these stripes brought no thought 
of resistance ; but there came a day 
when he rebelled. 

This life of bondage continued until 
the boy was about 15 years of age, 
when a circumstance led to a change 
in his life. One day, as the minstrel 
was wandering about the streets of the 
city, harp in hand, and listlessly play- 
ing about the street corners, he espied 
a crowd about the doors of a public 
building. Without meditation he walk- 
ed in. This was about the beginning 
of the anti-slavery agitation, and a fear- 
less orator wa> addressing an assembly 
on the curse of slavery. Some words 
of the speaker caught in the boy’s mind. 
It followed him out into the street, — 
all day to that miserable place that was 
his home (if the name be not mis- 
named) and all night. He did not 
know what freedom meant, but he en- 
vied the boot-black, as ragged as him- 
self, for having no master. Next morn- 
ing he awoke from a sleep troubled 
with this new thought, heavy of head 
and weary of limb. There was no rest 
for him, and he heeded not where he 
vvent. Toward night he found him- 
self playing on a wharf, where a steam- 
er was getting ready for departure. 
Passengers were hurrying to and fro. 
Occasionally one would listen to his 
music a moment and drop a penny in 


his cap. Suddenly a voice shouted : — 

“All aboard and all ashore !” 

The boy hesitated and then rushed 
on board. Why he did this he did 
not know. After they got under way 
he went into the cabin and played, 
and passing around his cap got 
quite a collection. This was the first 
money he had ever appropriated to 
himself. After a while the captain 
came round and asked him roughly 
what he was doing ; but the boy looked 
sick and there was something kindly 
about the officer, and so nothing more 
was said to him during the voyage. 
The next night they reached their 
destination. Here he went on shore 
and played about the streets ; and slept 
on door-steps — anywhere he could. 
He vvas painfully depressed both in 
mind and body. 

Soon he left the city and wandered 
through the country. This was a great 
change, for he had never seen the 
country before. There the people were 
kind, and he had never known what 
kindne>s was before. This buoyed him 
up as he traveled through the inland 
cities and villages ; but at last his de- 
pression came back ; this time a sick- 
ness that could not be shaken off. At 
last he could go no farther and he sank 
down by the wayside. 

Ill THE PROMISED LAND. 

This same afternoon Farmer Daniels 
who lived near where the little wan- 
derer had fallen, went to the neighbor- 
ing village, commonly called the Cor- 
ner, after a few groceries ; and having 


AND OTHER TALES . 


9 


made his purchases was on his way back. 
He was a happy man, and was wont to 
make the woods resound with rustic 
songs. He was riding along toward 
home, singing as usual, when suddenly 
his horse shied and stopped. 

“Git up thar, Tiger !” he said, when 
suddenly he saw the prostrate form of 
the musician beside the road. 

•‘Whoa ! Guess you aint to blame 
fur dancin' round !” 

He got out of the wagon, led the 
horse by, and hitched him to a tree 
that grew near by, remarking ; “Guess 
it’s best to see what ails the little fel- 
ler.” 

Daniels went up to the musician and 
shook him ; only a smothered groan 
was his answer. He shook him again, 
but with no better success. 

“Whew ! The little feller’s pale and 
looks an’ acts sick ! I guess, by the 
machine beside him, that 1 heer’d tell 
uf him at the Corner ! Well, he needs 
help anyhow !” 

Farmer Daniels lifted him up and 
put him into his wagon, together with 
the “strange machine,” as he called the 
harp, and drove home. 

“He’s one of them playin’ fellers,” 
he said to his wife in explanation, as he 
was removed from the wagon to the 
house. “I found him dead gone down 
’side the road ; so I took him in and 
brought him home. That’s what he 
plays on,” pointing to the harp. 

Mrs. Daniels was a kindly woman, 
and her care brought him out of his 
stupor, but only into a raging fever. 


For weeks he tossed and moaned and 
raved by turns. During his delirium 
he would frequently ejaculate the words 
“Slave,” “Slavery,” “Master,” greatly 
to the astonishment of the worthy Mr. 
and Mrs. Daniels. 

At last there came a day when he 
rallied from his delirium and opened his 
eyes in wonder. 

“Where am I?” “Have they taken 
me back to slavery?” 

“No, my dear boy,” said the gentle 
Mrs. Daniels. You are safe.” 

“I don’t understand,” said the boy 
slowly, with a puzzled air. 

“You are in good hands,” said the 
woman “but you musn’t talk now till 
you get better.” 

The day arrived when the boy was 
told how he came there, and in return 
he related the story of his enslavement 
and es< ape, which brought tears to the 
eyes of Mrs. Daniels and ejaculations 
of surprise and anger from the just 
farmer. 

“Don’t you remember anything about 
your folks? Your father and mother?” 
they urged. 

The boy did not comprehend, but 
the farmer and his wife plied him with 
questions, and at last there seemed to 
dawn on his mind something of their 
meaning. A cloud seemed to be lifted, 
and he dimly remembered a man he 
used to see long ago, — a man with a 
large yellow mustache, and who wore 
a coat all covered with gold lace. In 
his fancy he saw a great stone house, 
in which he used to live ; but all was 


ro 


THE PROMISED LAND , 


very vague. 

“But can’t you remember the name 
of the place or how it looked ?” asked 
Farmer Daniels. 

The boy ransacked his memory again 
and at last another vague recollection 
returned to him. A large mountain 
arose back ot the city, and a great 
smoke came from it ; and once a great 
noise that frightened him. Then some 
men took him and put him in a dark 
hole and carried him away, and he had 
never seen the city again. 

In the course of a few weeks the boy 
was able to walk out about the door- 
yard and barns, and one day Farmer 
Daniels asked him what he intended to 
do in the future. A look of sadness 
came over the boy’s face. He evident- 
ly wanted to st.iy with his benefactor, 
and perhaps had tacitly expected to 
do so. 

That night at the supper table Far- 
mer Daniels said : “Well, my boy, if 
you want to stay and work on the farm 
you can do so ; but what is your name ?” 

The boy shed tears of joy at this an- 
nouncement, and in reply to the in- 
terrogatory said simply, “Giovanni.” 

“Giovanni? Giovanni what?” 

“I don’t know,” said the buy. 

“Didn’t, you ever have any other 
name?” asked the farmer. 

“I don’t remember any other,” said 
the boy. 

“Well,” said Daniels, “I spect you’ve 
got to have another, and you might as 
well be Gio — what did you call it? 
Giovanni? ha? Well, you might as well 


be Giovanni Daniels as anybody else, 
I s’pose. You might go farther and 
find a worse name.” 

Thus Giovanni became a member of 
the Daniels family and so remained to 
the end of his days. He was brought 
up as farmer Daniels’ son, worked on 
the farm summers, and went to the 
district school winters, where he be- 
came quite proficient in his studies with 
the help of Farmer Daniels’ daughter, 
Nellie, who by and by became his wife. 

This change in Giovanni’s life — this 
sudden stopping of his life as it were, 
and the turning back to the scenes of 
his childhood as if to begin again, set 
him to thinking — thinking of his moth- 
er. The recollections were dim ; and 
the relationship only certain, perhaps, 
from the fact that he must have bad a 
mother ; yet he seemed to see her — 

• see her at work on a piece of clay and 
to hear her stories that the shapeless 
mass would some day be a beautiful 
woman. He had a dim remembrance 
of her taking him to visit a church, 
and as he pursued his recollections they 
became clearer, — a church with a pict- 
ured dome, statues and draped altar. 
There was one statue that came out 
clearly in his mini. A woman and a 
child, and such a kindly face that it 
seemed to fit itself in his memory as 
one of a few things of a forgotton life. 

This image took possession of his 
mind during the day and when he went 
to his bed at night and closed his eyes 
in slumber, he dreamed of a beautiful 
marble woman who stood on a hill 


AND OTHER TALES. 


u 


across a river and smiled sweetly and 
beckoned to him to come over to where 
she was. He tried to go but could 
not on account of the deep river ; and 
then she smiled so sadly and seemed 
to long for him to come over. He 
tried again but the water was too deep, 
and the current too swift ; and when 
he looked again she was enveloped in 
a cloud so he could not see her ; and 
while he was looking he awoke. 

This dream took possession of Gio- 
vanni even before he had any definite 
idea of what life was. The dream took 
him back to his chiblhood before he 
was a slave — a slave-life that had it not 
been for the suffering it had caused him 
would have been a blank. Farmer Dan- 
iels and family were people of strictly 
Puritanic principles, and church going 
was the rule for the Sabbath. The 
clergymen had a natural eloquence of 
language and among the first sermons 
that Giovanni remembered was a story 
of the Promised Land told in the im- 
passioned words of this preacher. This 
story found a place in the boy’s mind 
beside the image of his dreams ; and 
the two seemed some way to cling to- 
gether. 

For many years these visions were 
dreams only ; but at length they be- 
came something more. He had gain- 
ed some idea of modeling from a catch 
penny manual that came in his way, 
and during the rest ot his life he de- 
voted his spare moments to this pict- 
ure in his mind. The high pile of clay 
(which his simple-minded neighbors 


considered evidence that he was “a lee- 
tle mite teched”) as he worked slowly 
showed one feature after another, until 
after many years the dream of the beau- 
tiful woman was a reality. 

But the man ! Another artist, greater 
than he, had been at work on the mas- 
ter m : nd. Under the delicate pencil- 
ing the brown locks of his youth were 
silvered and under his moulding his 
once erect form was bending like the 
full-grown wheat. 

At last the end came, as the end 
must come in all cases. The old man 
one day, after working longer than us- 
ual, came in and went to bed and to 
sleep. From that sleep he never awoke. 
On the morrow his good neighbors 
turne.l out in reverence to see his dust 
returned to dust, and then, silently and 
and in awe, returned to the house to 
see the figure of the beautiful woman 
he had been so many years in creat- 
ing, — now finished. 


Years had passed since the death of 
Giovanni, and many of the neighbors 
that knew him were dead and gone ; 
but the traveler through this part of the 
country would often hear of a beautiful 
statue, now falling to decay, and the 
artist who had died long ago. 

'The story for the most part fell on 
indifferent ears ; but at last there came 
a man not like the rest, who from some 
motive was led to visit the sepulcher of 
this piece of art. When he was ad- 
mitted to the little farm workshop, and 
the dust which years had deposited was 


12 


THE PROMISED LAND. 


wiped away, he raised his hat and said 
simply, “The Promised Land.” 

Through the visit and efforts of this 
man the statue and the artist were res- 
cued from oblivion ; and the “Promised 


Land,” like the original Hebrow story, 
was the inheritance, not of the person 
who had the strength of mind to con- 
ceive it, but his descendants. 


AMONG THE DUMMIES. 


Oscar Raynolds, a young artist of 
Boston, decided in the summer of 1880 
to visit the historic Maine town ofLof- 
tytop for his customary season of study 
and meditation. An eight-hours’ ride 
on the railway brought him to a little 
country station in the Pine-tree state, 
whence he could see the steeples and 
roofs of Loftytop, three miles up the 
hill that towered above him ; and there 
he found an antiquated vehicle and 
horses, with a bqstling, saucy little man 
for driver, to convey him to his desti- 
nation. Leaving the village, they cross- 
ed a river which disclosed pretty wind- 
ings and maple-fringed banks on the 
lett, while on the right it settled into 
stagnant muddy lagoons, in one of which 
a blue heron stood, and gazed at them 
stupidly. Then they began to ascend 
the hill. At first they were surrounded 
by farms, but soon the meadows yield- 
ed to pastures ; the pastures in turn 
were lost in woodland, which covered 
the hillsides as if to isolate and guard 
the high-perched village ; then the 
woods grew thinner, and on the right 
white marble shafts were espied among 


the trees, where a century of the in- 
habitants of Loftytop lie sleeping. 

The village of the living is just above ; 
the houses surrounded by fruit and 
shade trees, and on this early June day 
the orchards yet retained their blossoms 
though with faint hold, and their white 
and pink clusters, with the opening 
roses about the doors, gave a beautiful 
effect to the verdure. A light breeze 
shook the branches, and sent such a 
shower of petals drifting as almost to 
fill the air and whiten the street with 
profusion. This was Raynold’s wel- 
come to Loftytop, and the beauty of 
the scene touched him. 

Presently, seated at the window of a 
chamber in the hotel to which he had 
been taken, he gazed upon a lovely 
New England valley, with its little river 
shining beneath the setting sun like a 
stream of silver. Grassy intervals un- 
dulated in the breeze, between the 
flanking hills ; higher and higher the 
valley rose, and lower and lower de- 
scended the sky, until they meet in 
peaks of snow. These were the New 
England Alps. From every state in 


THE PROMISED LAND , 


1 4 


New England we turn to admire these 
glorious summits, but it is in Maine 
and New Hampshire that the people 
worship them. Long did Raynolds 
drink in the wondrous beauty. 

After supper, as he was viewing the 
village life from the veranda, he fell in 
with a villager who catalogued for him 
the natural attractions of the vicinity. 

“Mount Rainy” — indicating with his 
thumb an eminence to the east of the 
village, — “Cascade brook, Cave of Tro- 
phonius — ” 

“So I have got into classic lands?” 
interrupted Raynolds, “I did not know 
before that Trophonius was situated in 
Maine.” 

The citizens laughed. “This is but 
one of many counterparts, and I think 
you may safely venture into its shade 
without fear of losing your gayety.” 

Raynolds seemed prepossessed in 
behalf of this classic retreat, and asked 
several questions regarding its where- 
abouts, which the citizen kindly an- 
swered. 

“I think I will visit the cave and do 
some sketching there to-morrow,” said 
Raynolds, “if 1 can find it. Do you 
know of any one who can guide me?” 

The citizen thought a moment and 
then answered, “I know of a boy who 
goes within a short distance of the cave 
every day, and I will charter him for 
your guide and send him to the hotel in 
the morning.” 

When Raynolds looked out of his 
eastern window, next morning, the sun 
was arising, seemingly out ot a gap in 


the crest of old Rainy, while from his 
western window he beheld the summits 
that were generally clothed with cold 
whiteness now peaks of burnished gold. 
A sparrow was singing his matins, while 
from the garden he could hear the pe- 
culiar cry of the robin, which the farm- 
ers translate into “wash skillet” and 
which they further say is an omen of 
rain. Soon the gong sounded, indi- 
cating breakfest ; and Raynolds re- 
sponded to the summons. He had 
scarcely finished when a small, deeply- 
tanned boy made his appearance, and 
announced that he had been engaged 
to pilot the gentleman to the cave of 
Trophonius. Raynolds took his sketch- 
box, camp-chair and umbrella, and 
sauntered after the boy. 

Their way lay at first through a pleas 
ant street of the village and the boy 
gave a rambling commentary on the 
villagers whose houses, they passed. 
Then came a stretch of country and 
down a steep hill. Raynolds’s conduct- 
or either gave up talking to him, or he, 
lost in meditation, forgot to listen. But 
his meditation was broken by the fol- 
lowing announcement from the boy 

“This is Silverthread brook. The 
Cave of Trophonius is further up the 
brook. I can go no further with you, 
but you can find it yourself easy 
enough.” 

Raynolds thanked him, and turned 
to view the little thread of water that 
was falling over a ledge on the right. It 
was a hot day, and he thought he would 
seek shelter from the rays of the sun 


AND OTHER TALES. 


* 5 


under the bridge and sketch the stream 
and rocks ; so he scrambled down to 
the bed of the brook and seated him- 
self on a cool stone: but instead of 
sketching he betook himself to dream- 
ing. After a while he awoke from his 
reverie, and feeling in no mood for 
sketching, he shouldered his kit and 
clambered over the rocks to explore 
the brook. He had not proceeded far 
when he heard distant thunder, and 
looking up, he saw that the robin’s 
morning prophecy was proving true and 
that rain-clouds were forming. 

“I must be getting out of this,” he 
said ; then he saw a pile of rocks that 
he concluded must hide' the cave, and 
he thought he would investigate that 
before returning, even at the expense 
of a drenching. 

As he was climbing over the rocks 
he caught sight of something that in- 
terested him more than the cave. That 
something was a woman and she, like 
himself, was an artist. She had made 
better use of her time^ however, than 
he, and was sketching. “Ho !” said he 
to himself, “Artists are plenty this morn- 
ing. She’s a cool one, though — takes 
no notice of the thunder. Guess likely 
she lives near by and can get home be- 
fore the shower strikes, but I must be 
moving or I shan’t !” and he began 
climbing a rock in front of him. When 
about two-thirds up, by some hap or 
mishap, he slipped and down he came, 
causing the rolling stones to scatter in 
every direction. He picked himself 
up somewhat bruised and more cha- 


grined and looked toward the artist. 
She had not moved a limb ! 

“Whew !” whistled Raynolds, now 
truly astonished. “Is she a woman or 
statue? Nothing moves her! If the 
thunder was distant, I made noise 
enough to awaken the seven sleepers 
and Raynolds looked at her wonder- 
ingly. 

Just then there happened something 
that caused this silent figure to start. 
It was a rain drop ! The shower had 
been drawing nearer, but so engrossed 
had she been in her sketch that she 
had not noticed it. She looked alarm- 
ed and began hastily to pick up her 
utensils. Raynolds saw that she had 
no unbrella and had on but a thin print 
dress, and impelled by courtesy he has- 
tened to offer her his. She did not 
notice him till within a few feet of her 
and then she started with fright. But 
his smile seemed to reassure her, and 
he offered her the use of his unbrella, 
but she made no answer. Raynolds 
was abashed ! What could she mean ? 
He looked at her closely and saw that 
she was poorly clad. At last she seem- 
ed to comprehend that he was speak- 
ing to her, and she made a sign that 
she could neither speak nor hear ; she 
also produced a small slate ; and Ray- 
nolds reduced to writing his offer, which 
she accepted. 

The rain now began to fall rapidly 
and they hurried along, she indicating 
the way. It was no use trying to reach 
the road, and they took refuge in a little 
shanty, evidently the sugar-house of 


ib 


THE PROMISED LAND. 


some farmer near by. Here while it 
was raining they carried on a conversa- 
tion by means of the little slate, in 
which he told her who he was, and she 
showed him her sketch, adding that 
she had never taken any lessons ; and 
he thought the sketch wonderful. 

When it stopped raining they started 
for the village, he carrying her sketch- 
box. They wended their way up the 
village streets to the poorer portion of 
the town, where her parents lived. 
When they parted at the gate he said 
by way of the slate, that he hoped that 
their acquaintance already begun might 
continue, and her sly blush seemed to 
give acquiesence. 

Raynolds hurried to his hotel, for it 
was now late in the afternoon. 

After supper Raynolds sat down upon 
the veranda to enjoy the evening and a 
cigar ; and presently the citizen of the 
night before walked upon the veranda 
and sat down beside him to inquire 
about his morning’s trip. 

“Did you succeed in reaching the 
cave?” he asked 

Raynolds replied that he did not, as 
the rain drove him off. 

“So you have not come back like the 
fabled visitants of old, sedate and grave 
with all gayness gone ?” 

“No, but I have made an interesting 
discovery,” said he, “in the shape of a 
deaf-mute artist and he related the 
day’s adventure, and made some inqui- 
ries about the girl. 

“Oh, yes !” said the citizen, “we 
have a deaf-mute colony, some half- 


dozen families. A missionary comes 
among them every month — let me see 
— yes — I believe next Sabbath is the 
day ! You should hear them — or rath- 
er see them — worship.” 

“1 certainly shall go,” said Raynolds. 

The remainder of the week soon 
passed by. Raynolds rambled about 
the town and environs, viewing the 
noted places and sketching here and 
there. Very often his thoughts would 
wander to the deaf-mute girl. He won- 
dered how she could ever have ana- 
lyzed colors? how, bereft of so many 
senses, she could have learned any- 
thing? and yet she seemed to under- 
stand all. She wrote a beautiful hand 
and used correct English. How much 
she had lost — never to have heard the 
music of speech ? Then he dismissed 
the theme with the explanation, — she 
had never known what she had lost. 

Sunday was a long day to Raynolds 
until the deaf-mute session in the after- 
noon, which he attended. He had 
heard of dumb eloquence before, but 
had never known what it was. On tak 
ing his seat he looked around him and 
saw some 20 persons. Silence reigned 
except for the occasional rustle of a 
dress or moving about on the seats. 
He studied their faces, and a more in- 
telligent gathering he thought he had 
never seen. There was one man that 
particularly attracted his attention. He 
was about 40 years of age, tall and well 
formed, with high forehead and fine 
face lighted up with intelligence. Soon 
the mute preacher arose and with one 


AND OTHER TALES. 


gesture all bent their heads in prayer ; 
that over, he stepped to the front, and 
addressed them by the sign language. 
What he said, of course, Raynolds could 
not understand except by the eager 
workings of the face of the preacher 
and those of the worshipers. After the 
address they had a social meeting, led 
by the wonderful personage whom he 
had noticed before, an I seeing the 
urchin who had conducted him to Sil- 
verthread brook, he asked him who the 
man was. The boy answered that his 
name was Allston ; and added that he 
was, to use the lad’s idiom, “king of 
the dummies.” 

As Allston arose Raynolds perceived 
his acquaintance of the thunder shower. 

“Who is she?” he asked his boy 
friend. 

“Lizzie Allston.” 

So she was this man’s daughter, Ray- 
nolds mused. Soon the meeting broke 
up, and Lizzie, blushing, recognized 
him as he stood by the door. 

Raynolds passed this summer very 
mut h as he had intended, — and yet 
very differently. He sketched and 
rambled about the country, working up 
pictures to be finished in his little city 
studio the next winter ; and strange to 
say, he passed a good deal of time with 
Lizzie Allston. They sketched to- 
gether, and he learned the sign lan- 
guage, and so passed pleasant hours in 
conversation with Lizzie and her farth- 
er. These conversations seemed to 
have changed the whole tenor of his 
nature. Hitherto his life had been 


17 

gently selfish, and he had thought very 
little seriously. But now other things 
began to creap in. He thought more 
and more of what these “dummies,” as 
they were called, had lost, and whether 
he should be as contented as they un- 
der like circumstances. He hinted his 
feeling delicately to Lizzie ; but she 
reverently blessed the Lord for having 
given her so much to enjoy. “Can I 
not see the beauties of nature ? And 
havn’t I been given the talent to re- 
produce them on canvas? — and as for 
the senses denied me, I never knew 
what they were.” When Raynolds sug- 
gested — What if anything more should 
happen? her sight, for instance, be 
taken from her, she answared calmly, 
“Then the Lord’s will be done, but I 
hope that will never happen.” 

After such conversations Raynolds 
would go back to his hotel with differ- 
ent thoughts — thoughts bearing on the 
duties of life. 

A sad event had taken place among 
the deaf-mutes since Raynolds’s resi- 
dence at Loftytop. Mrs. Allston had 
died, and the event had so affected her 
brave and noble husband that he was 
tottering on the edge of the grave. His 
approaching death had an effect such 
as Raynolds had never seen before, not 
only on this bereaved daughter, but on 
the whole community of deaf-mutes. 
Ic was he who had collected the colony ; 
it was he who had looked after their 
physical, mental and spiritual welfare ; 
it was he who had had the strength of 
many men ; and it was he who was sink- 


THE PROMISED LAND , 


/8 


ing to the grave, perhaps by that self- 
same strength. Lizzie was broken- 
hearted ; who would take care of her 
when her father was gone, and who 
would take care of others even weaker 
than herself? Raynolds tried to cheer 
her, all the while thinking that she 
had more strength than he, and he 
wondered wherein that strength lay. 

At length the dissolution came and 
all that was mortal of John Allston was 
laid beside his wife in the church-yard. 
It was a funeral cortege such as one 
seldom sees ; the tears of all were run- 
ning down their faces, but no broken 
words could come to their relief; yet 
the pangs of the heart which no words 
could reach, words cannot describe. 

The month of September had waned 
and the visitors, like birds of passage, 
had departed. The leaves, having put 
on their autumnal dress, had grown 
pale, fallen, and were now sweeping 
past in the wind, and yet Raynolds lin- 
gered. He could not leave the sorrow- 
ing deaf-mute girl in her grief. He 
could not leave the one to whom he 
was indebted for his more refined sen- 
timents and deeper trust in God. His 
visits of pity had become visits of love. 
Yes, here was the trouble ; he loved ! 
and yet could he hamper himself with 
a deaf-mute wife? What if other mis- 
fortunes should happen to her? How 
would she bear up under them, — she 
who did not comprehend her present 
loss? He must either conquer his love 
or be conquered by it, and which should 
it be ? After many days and a hard 


struggle the answer came. Love had 
conquered. 

Then the struggle changed hands. 
This time it was the sensitive though 
impassioned girl ; but at last love con- 
quered, also, in this case. 

Lizzie still suffered from the loss of 
her parents, and it took all Raynolds’s 
efforts to comfort her. To do this he 
took her one sunshiny day in October 
to ramble over the fields and through 
the woods. A great many Of the leaves 
had fallen, and also the acorns and 
beechnuts from their saucers and burrs. 
There was less life than in the summer, 
but squirrels were running first up one 
tree, then down and up another, busy 
gathering in their winter’s supplies, and 
chattering either in thankfulness for the 
store before them, or in fear of the in- 
truders. They had reason to fear, for 
there were many hunters abroad, and 
the crack, crack, of their guns startled 
the squirrels and Raynolds alike. All 
at once, as they passed along, Lizzie 
suddenly put her hand to her face, and 
then a bright stream of blood trickled 
down. 

There was confusion for a moment, 
as Lizzie could not tell what had hap- 
pened to her ; but at last it became 
evident that a stray shot had hit heron 
one side of her face. Raynolds hur- 
ried her home and summoned a physi- 
cian, who, after attending her declared 
to him that the sight of one eye was 
lost, and entertained grave fears of the 
other. 

Raynolds was almost insane. Day 


AND OTHER TALES. 


after day and night after night he would 
walk the house wringing his hands and 
groaning and doing what he had never 
done before, praying ‘‘that the bitter 
cup might be removed.” 

In the mean time the sick girl suffer- 
ed greatly from the inflammation which 
set in ; but at last the pain left her and 
she settled down to an exhausted sleep 
— the first real sleep for several weeks. 
But what an awakening ! There could 
be but one other more startling, — when 
death shuts the gates of this world and 
opens the golden portals of the New 
Jerusalem. All was darkness ! She 
moved uneasily, — put her hands to her 
eyes, and let them fall listlessly at her 
side. What more could she do? How 
long she lay so no one could tell. Rey- 
nolds was present, and his agony was 
intense. He raved, walked the room, 
tore his hair, and great drops of sweat 
stood on his forehead. 

At length Lizzie roused and a look 
of intelligence came over her face, and 
she held up one hand and signed ask- 
ing if any one was in the room, and 
where was Oscar. 

He went up to her and laid his hand 
on her forehead. She knew him and 
smiled ; then in a moment she signed, 
“am I blind?” 

How could he answer her? He knew 
not how to communicate, and if he did 
how could he tell her the truth. After 
waiting a moment he kissed her. She 
understood, and a sad smile crossed 
her face. 

There was a dark future in his mind ; 


'9 

but who could comprehend what the 
thoughts of the poor, blind, deaf-mute 
girl were? There were struggles for 
them — struggles for him as he thought 
of the burden laid upon him ; struggles 
for her whose innate high sense of hon- 
or forbade her to be a burden on any 
one, yet she had what he had not, an 
unshaken trust in God, by whom even 
a sparrow’s fall is noted. Let us not 
peer into their struggles. They be- 
longed to themselves and their God. 

Several years have passed since the 
events narrated and the reader is in- 
vited to a new scene. It is a tenement 
in the city. In a cozy little parlor sits 
a lady knitting. Quietly she sits, as 
one might say, from one day to another, 
at the same employment. She is pale 
and very quiet. There seemingly is no 
variation in the expression of her feat- 
ures during her long hours of work. 
Should you watch her you would see 
peculiarities about her manner of work- 
ing — touching her work with her fing- 
ers carefully, yet so skillfully that you 
could scarcely dream that she had 
touched it purposely to guide her 
stitches. Yet this was the fact — she 
was blind. A servant-girl flew briskly 
about the house, doing the work and 
singing, yet she disturbed not the pale 
sightless woman, for she was deaf also. 
No word of command ever came from 
her, for she was dumb. Could you 
have had the privilege of watching her 
during the day, however, you might see 
a change in her. As the sun would 
sink, by some intuition, she would sit 


JO 


THE PROMISED LAND . 


more erect and to all appearance seem- 
ed listening ; and it was listening of a 
certain kind ! It was for any slight 
thrill of the flow of air announcing the 
opening or shutting of a door. Sud- 
denly she leels it and starts up, feeling 
her way carefully around the room, and 
comes close to the door to greet a 
man — her husband. 

The reader will recognize him as the 
artist of several years ago. He meets 
and greets his wife, and a flush of hap- 
piness overspreads both their faces as 
he leads her to her accustomed chair 
and then takes one beside her. Then, 
to the looker-on, a singular proceed- 
ing takes place. He takes her hand, 
or rather she lays it out in a peculiar 
way and her husband plays over it as 
if it had been a piano key-board. In 
watching her face during this duet, as 
you might call it, you would see her 
face put on a happy expression, be- 
come suddenly grave or break out into 


merriment. All day had she sat in 
darkness, and this was her pleasure — 
her only pleasure, when her husband 
came home at night to talk to her — 
the only one with whom she could hold 
intercourse. 

And Raynolds — what of him? His 
life was hard in some’ respects. He 
was no longer an artist ; but worked 
hard all day to support himself and his 
bereft wife, and it was his great joy to 
get home from work, don dressing gown 
and slippers, to talk with her who had 
sat so patiently all day waiting for his 
return. Nor was he unhappy in his 
sacrifice, and his prayer was that he 
might live long with her to whom with- 
out him all was darkness. Nor was his 
the only prayer that ascended in his 
behalf, nor was this later prayer lesson- 
ed by the sweet though sad benedic- 
tion which followed : “The Lord gave, 
and the Lord hath taken away ; blessed 
be the name of the Lord.” 


THE INTERRUPTED SONG. 


In the year 1 880 I found myself the 
owner of a parchment signifying that 
the degree of M. D. had been conferr- 
ed upon me by a prominent New Eng- 
land medical school ; and being desir- 
ous of perfecting my medical knowledge 
nnd also to travel abroad. I attached 
myself to the medical staff of a hospital 
in Liverpool. In attending to my 
duties there, a man lounging about the 
buildings and grounds attracted my at- 
tention. His manner was listless, apa 
thetic ; and his face and head, which a 
sculptor might have chosen for a model 
of intellectuality, showed no gleam of 
the powerful mind that might have been 
expected to dwell within. I approached 
him one day with a question, and he 
gave in reply only a vacant stare, show- 
ing that his mental faculties were by 
some means impaired. My fellow-physi- 
cians knew nothing concerning him ex- 
cept that he had been about the hospital 
ever since their connection with it. In 
talking with the superintendent I gain- 
ed something more of his history : — 
Some 10 years before a sailor was 
brought to the hospital in an insensi- 


ble condition. A heavy block from the 
rigging had fallen, striking him on the 
head and fracturing his skull. The 
man recovered from his wound, but he 
had ever since been an idiot. By the 
neglect of the secretary his nationality, 
ship, residence, etc., had not been reg- 
istered upon the hospital books. No 
one had ever inquired for him and no 
light of any kind had ever been thrown 
upon his identity. Strangely enough, 
also, the neglect that had failed to reg 
istei him, had failed to send him to an 
almshouse. Thus he had lived for 10 
years. 

I was much interested, and upon 
examining him I thought I could help 
him by trepanning his skull. There 
was no opposition raised to my at- 
tempting the operation and I perform- 
ed it. The result was all I could have 
hoped. His reason was restored ; but 
the whole 10 years of his existence had 
been to him as a day. On his recovery 
he inquired where he was and had a 
faint recollection of the stunning blow 
he had received. When he fully rea- 
lized the length of time he had been 


22 


THE PROMISED LAND , 


bereft of his reason, he was thrown in- 
to a highly nervous state, from which 
he did not recover for several weeks, 
a part of the time being partially in- 
sane. During his delirium I caught 
portions of what I thought might be 
his history which deeply interested me ; 
and upon his recovery I tried to gain 
his confidence. I partially succeeded 
in this and gathered a somewhat con- 
nected story of his life ; although on 
what might aptly be called the instal- 
ment plan. I will give the story in my 
own words. 

In the little New England village of 
Kingville there are two houses side by 
side, with but a garden between ; one 
a spacious mansion and the other a 
small unpainted cottage. Old Major 
Jere Wedgewood, having accumulated 
a limited amount of property in the 
city, and a limited amount of rank and 
influence by four years of army life 
during the great rebellion, moved into 
this rural village that he might more 
effectually play the lord over his neigh 
bors. Kingville was situated on a plain 
with a small river meandering through 
it ; and the only eligible site to build a 
mansion for the would-be magnate was 
on an eminence — the only one in the 
village — on the western bank of the 
river. On the western side of the lot 
purchased by the major stood the cot 
tage mentioned above, occupied not 
only by humble but poverty-stricken 
people. A defective title rendered it 
impossible for Major Wedgewood to 
purchase this cottage, and thus it stood, 


an eyesore beside his mansion, and thus 
it stands to-day. 

Major Wedgewood was a politician 
the kind we call at present a “machine 
man and most of his time was spent 
in looking after public affairs, which he 
turned as far as possible into private 
affairs. His family consisted of a wife, 
several sons and one daughter, Minnie, 
who at the opening of this story (at 
the close of the late war) was about 10 
years old. The family spent most of 
the time in pleasure. All day carriages 
rolled in and out of the grounds, and 
boats floated on the sluggish current of 
the river, which was the outlet of a 
pond just above. 

The Linds, who occupied the cot- 
tage, were the reverse in almost every 
particular. They had the usual number 
of poor men’s blessings, there being a 
family of several girls and one boy. 
1 'he girls were healthy, buxom creatures 
who worked in a neighboring mill ; but 
the boy, Leroy, was a small, sickly 
youth of 12 years. On account of his 
frailness the boy very rarely went from 
home ; and one of his greatest pleas- 
ures was to steal over to the land of 
the rich man, and from the shade of 
the shrubbery watch the carriages and 
the boats. In this place he was found 
by the little daughter, and the usual 
duet of childish glances and shy ex- 
pressions took place ; but it resulted in 
a firm friendship. The bov had en- 
joyed but few educational advantages, 
but in the course of their childish friend- 
ship the girl brought her books and 


AND OTHER TALES. 


*3 


they read and studied together ; and 
then they strayed into the house and 
the girl played to him on the piano. 
The music awakened in the boy a slum- 
bering passion. 

This kind of life went on for a num- 
ber of years, with only one incident 
which the reader will care to peruse. 
The cottage was the gift, or rather the 
loan, of a relative, and had at one time 
been occupied by him, and many of his 
effects were stored in theatric. Leroy ? 
lounging in this attic one day, noticed 
a violin case under the low eves, cov- 
ered vvith a thick coating of dust. Pull- 
ing out the case to the light and open- 
ing it, he found it contained an old 
violin. The boy had found a godsend. 
From that time forth it was his con- 
stant companion ; and at length the 
voice of the violin added itself to that 
of the piano. 

Then the boy and girl would stroll 
through the woods to the shores of the 
neighboring pond and listen to the lap 
ping of the waters, forming a sweet 
and gentle accompaniment to the fre 
quent obligatos of the song birds. Oc- 
casionally a loon would halloo hoarsely, 
but its last ptolonged note would melt 
into harmony with the waves. Some- 
times the wind would blow with greater 
force, and the murmer of the waves 
would increase to a roar, as if to ob- 
literate the sighs of the lonely pine up- 
on the shore, as it told, perhaps, of the 
misery in the wake of the coming 
storm. Then the lightning would flash 
and the thunder roar, accompanied by 


the dashing of rain, drowning all minor 
sounds, as if God were displeased at 
the ill appreciation of his children for 
the beautiful melody of the summer day. 
Then the wind and rain would cease ; 
the sun bursting out with all his mag- 
nificence would convert the dripping 
foliage into sparkling rubies and dia 
monds ; and then the old melody of the 
waves would return, broken only by the 
happy hum of the bumblebee as he 
emerged from nis prison in the bell of 
a flower and sought his home and his 
fellows in the neighboring field. 

All this music of nature filled the 
boy’s soul with a sense of harmony, as 
he and his companion looked upon the 
scene from the shelter of a summer 
house, and an ardent longing came to 
him to reproduce the same in the soli 
tilde of his room. Then his desire grew 
into a resolve that some day he would 
do so. 

But a time of parting came to the 
two. As time rolled on the usages of 
society took its accustomed hold upon 
them. The bov was a fit playmate for 
the rich man’s daughter ; but the man 
was a social inferior ; so old Major 
YVedgewood forbade the intercourse 
between them. 

1'his roused a dormant element in 
the young man’s nature — pride. He 
would be acknowledged an equal when 
the great poem in his soul should be 
expressed in symbols by which the 
baser world would receive and judge, 
then would he return and claim the 
reward which he tacitly thought would 


24 


THE PROMISED LAND. 


be his. 

Thus the young man went forth into 
the world to conquer it. He worked 
first at one thing and then another, and 
finally went to sea. The music of the 
winds and waves had an attraction for 
him, and it seemed a help to work out 
the great subject that throbbed in his 
bosom for expression. This was how 
it happened that Leroy Lind was a sai- 
lor in the harbor of Liverpool, and the 
sad victim of the plot of the falling 
block. 

Now ten years were past, and his 
great object was not accomplished. 
Ten years of nonentity, — entirely for- 
gotten by the world ! No one about 
him even knowing his name ! Was it 
any wonder he was discouraged ? 

His nervous trouble settled into an 
apathy that was more painful to behold 
than his vacant stare had been. I was 
highly apprehensive of the result and 
took every way to relieve his melan- 
choly. I took him to the theatre with 
me ; but it had little effect upon him. 
Occasionally the music would rouse 
him, and his eves would sparkle as I 
fancied they might have done when a 
boy ; but the light would soon die out. 

Among other things for his amuse- 
ment, I purchased a violin. At first 
he played listlessly, but even then his 
playing showed a masterly touch. One 
night there came a great storm. The 
rain fell in torrents on roof and pave ; 
the wind howled about the trees on the 
lawn ; and even the dashing of the wa- 
ter on the walled banks of the Mersey 


could be heard. Lmd was sitting in 
my room clothed in his accustomed 
apathy. Now and then he would raise 
his head and listen, and then it would 
drop. As the evening wore on the 
intervals between his listening grew 
shorter ; and at length he wheeled his 
chair about facing the window and sat 
bolt upright. His eyes shone with an 
intense light, such as I had never seen 
in them before, and I trembled for his 
reason. 

About midnight the fury of the storm 
abated. The rain ceased, the sound of 
the waves was silent, and the wind only 
sighed among the branches of the trees. 
Lind sat listening a few moments and 
then picking up the violin which lay on 
the floor he played, and with a feeling 
that was wonderful. For an hour he 
played and the impassioned flow of the 
violin had sunk into a low sweet melo- 
dy. When he ceased the tears were 
rolling down his cheeks. The old in- 
terrupted song of his youth had return- 
ed ! He came over to where I sat and 
put his hand on my shoulder ; but he 
trembled so violently that had I not 
taken hold of him by main strength, 
he would have fallen to the floor. 

Lind’s nervous system had received 
a shock ; therefore I put him to bed 
and gave him an opiate from the effect 
of which he slept many hours I trem- 
bled for the effect the night might have 
upon him ; but when he arose he was 
an entirely different man. On dress 
ing he called for pencil and paper and 
for weeks he worked to transfer the 


AND OTHER TALES. 


25 


music to paper. 

At length the symphony was com- 
pleted, published and so far successful 
as to be the beginning ot his career as 
a musical composer. The success 
aroused his energy, and he sought em- 
ployment that he might as far as pos- 
sible make up for the lost past. He 
obtained a place in the orchestra of a 
theatre, and in his spare moments wan- 
dered about the sea-shore that he might 
recatch, as it were, the distant echoes 
he still seemed to hear in the inmost 
recesses of his soul of almost forgotton 
melodies. One day, after some two 
years had passed, Lind came to me 
and wished to make me a present of a 
sum of money as a token of gratitude 
for the operation I had performed. 
He magnified the work ; I had restored 
what was more valuable than life — rea- 
son ; and he urged me to accept. Per- 
haps in most cases avarice might have 
led me to accept ; I had performed the 
operation in the interest of medical 
science ; but my curiosity during these 
long months of intimacy had changed 
to friendship ; and I would accept only 
his gratitude as a proof of a friendship 
which I hoped I possessed. When 
Lind found me firm in my determina- 
tion he said with what I could not help 
feeling was a sigh of relief : — 

“You have my heart-felt thanks ; and 
your generosity has given me the means 
of carrying out a wish to return to 
America, and review scenes that are 
fresh in my mind, although so many 
years have passed since I left them.” 


In a month or so, Lind, having com- 
pleted his engagements, sailed for 
America, and I lost track of him. A 
few months later having finished the 
space of time I had contemplated de- 
voting to the hospital and taken a tour 
on the continent, I also returned, and 
began the practice of medicine in Bos- 
ton. 

One night while taking a little rec 
reation at a theatre, I thought I saw 
Lind in the orchestra, but was not sure, 
as the man was so thin and careworn. 
In a few days, however, my doubts 
were removed by meeting him face to 
face in the street. He seemed glad to 
see me, but his manner and conver- 
sation were indifferent and after a few 
remarks I said : — 

“Come to my office, and let me pre- 
scribe for you. You look sick, and you 
know my prescription once did you 
good.” 

He smiled, thanked me and accept- 
ed the invitation. When we were seat- 
ed I asked him to give me the history 
of the interval that had elapsed since 
our separation. He needed some urg- 
ing to comply, but at last he did so. 
His words as near as I can remember, 
were as follows : — 

“About the time of my departure 
from England I had been seized with 
longing to return to my old home, I 
wanted to hear again the music of the 
waters, trees and birds I had heard in 
my youth : — yes, and the voice of the 
playmate of my boyhood. Perhaps it 
was foolish, — a poor fiddler, — yet I in- 


26 


THE PROMISED LAND , 


dulged the hope.” 

Here he stopped and I inquired if 
he did see her. 

“Yes. I reviewed the scenes of my 
childhood and I saw my lost playmate. 
Yes, she was lost, for a dozen years 
covers deep the memory of old forms 
with new ones. I found Minnie mar- 
ried, and of course she did not recog- 
nize me, whom she had long thought 
dead, I ought not to have disclosed 
myself ; but it was my weakness. What 
had I to expect of the purse-proud 
Wedgewoods, who make marriages for 
mercenary and social purposes? Yet 
I fancied that my visit left a shadow 
upon her brow. It might have been, 
after all, a conceit of my own. The 
sound of her voice brought b i'k the 
songs of my youth, and I dared not stay, 
lest I should enjoy that which would be 
a sin. So you see my return to America 
has rendered me sad ; and my only 
diversion is to philosophize upon the 
mission of human existence,” 

“Do you not compose anything 
now?” I asked. 

“My lyre is mournful now, and I 
had better be silent.” 


I tried to arouse him from this mel- 
ancholy state, — tried to interest him 
in the work of composition ; and I had 
the satisfaction before he left of hear- 
ing him say he would try. He kept 
his word, and during the following year 
published several pieces of merit. 

In about a year from the time we 
had this conversation he came to my 
office with an expression on his face I 
had not seen since his departure for 
America. 

“I have a question to ask you,” he 
said. “Why is a human being so much 
below a beast ? for it seems at times as 
if he was.” 

“I do not understand you? I said. 

“I will tell you. I have recently 
learned of the death of Minnie Wedge- 
wood’s husband, and some way, the 
fact that should, at least, have caused 
pity, gives me, notwithstanding my 
endeavors to the contrary, a secret 
feeling of pleasure. Wealth and fame 
come slowly, but my faith increases. 
Already I can hear in the inmost re- 
cesses of my heart the sweet strains of 
a new song, and its name is Hope.” 


A MESSAGE FROM THE ENEMY. 


There was a rattle of wheels before 
the entrance of the city hospital in the 

town of P- , and an ambulance 

drew up from which was taken a mid- 
dle-aged man in an insensible condi- 
tion. He had suddenly fallen in the 
street, so the attendants said, and show- 
ing no signs of life the ambulance had 
been summoned and he was thus an 
inmate of the hospital. Upon exami- 
nation it was decided to be a case of 
paralysis, the cause of which could not 
at first be determined. Closer exami- 
nation revealed a small spot on the 
side of the head where no hair grew, 
and a scar there showed it to have been 
caused by a wound. From this place 
an indistinct ridge extended toward the 
top of the head and ended in a slight 
protuberence, suggesting that some- 
thing was buried beneath the skull. 
Upon consultation it was thought that 
this substance, whatever it was, might 
be the cause of the present condition 
of the unknown patient and its remov- 
al was determined upon. 

Dr. Joseph Gray, a middle-aged 
man, and the most experienced sur- 


geon on the staff, performed the oper- 
ation. Removing a small portion of 
the skull a leaden bullet was discovered 
immediately beneath and removed. 
The Doctor laid the bullet carelessly 
upon the table and proceeded to dress 
the wound after which he took it up 
and examined it more closely. As he 
looked at it a curious expression came 
over his face and he sat down as if 
fatigued. He continued to look at it 
and after a moment or two taking it 
between his hands he gave it a wrench 
and the bullet was divided and in it 
was a hollow in which was a piece of 
tissue paper with the following words 
thereon : — 

Headquarters First Brigade, 

May io, ’63. 

Send out detachments and drive off 
Yankee skirmishers ; also destroy what 
stores you may find and join the bri- 
gade at once. 

A. S. M , Colonel com’d’g. 

To officer in command of detach- 
ment at Cross Roads. 

The finding of the above missive in 
this curious hiding place caused much 


THE PROMISED LAND . 


28 


wonder and comment, through which 
Dr. Gray sat lost in thought. At last 
he aroused and said : 

“Search the man’s pockets and see 
if you can find any clue to his iden- 
tity !” 

His command was obeyed and there 
were found a small pocket-knife, a few 
loose coins, a handkerchief and a pock- 
et book containing a few papers, a sum 
of money and on the fly-leaf the name, 
John Williams, R , Virginia. 

“I thought so !” said Dr. Gray — a 
remark which caused much surprise 
among the attendants, but as he seem- 
ed disinclined for conversation no fur- 
ther talk was made. The man re- 
mained in a comntose condition and 
Dr. Gray gave orders that a special 
nurse should attend him. 

Mr. Williams remained unchanged 
for some time when he slowly regained 
consciousness. At first there was a 
mere fluttering of life, but at last he 
regained a steady though weak pulse 
and his recovery seemed assured. 

When he had regained sufficient 
strength to realize his surroundings, Dr. 
Gray walked in one morning and ex- 
tending his hand said : — 

“Good morning John, what can I 
do for you ?” 

The man cast a puzzled look at the 
Doctor and scrutinized his counten- 
ance for several moments in a dazed 
sort of way, but at last a look of as- 
tonishment overspread his face and he 
said nervously : — 

“Is that you Joe?” 


A few words of explanation passed 
between them, and then the men eyed 
each other in a seemingly embarrassed 
manner, each looking as if he wished 
to ask some question he dared not. 
The Doctor quieted him for he was 
still weak but in the course of a few 
weeks the ice was broken and a story 
came out concerning the past relations 
of these men which was an astonishing 
revelation to Dr. Gray’s friends and so 
much a romance, that I give it for the 
benefit the reader. 

Some thirty-five years before the in- 
cident narrated, Dr. Gray and John 
Williams were boys together in a Vir- 
ginia town. They were particular 
friends and when one was seen the 
other was generally not tar distant. 
They passed through the various fort- 
unes of boyhood much as other boys 
do, escaping without serious injury 
from the tumbles occasioned by fool- 
hardy adventures until they arrived at 
that trying time on the eve of man- 
hood — falling in love. Then they must 
both cast their affections on one damsel, 
Elsie Lee, although in the town in 
which they lived there were enough to 
go round with a very sizable remainder 
left. 

For a long time their advances were 
met in a friendly manner, without 
evincing a perference for either. Dur- 
ing this period first one and then the 
other would be in the ascendant until 
the boys became rival lovers and eyed 
each other with a jealousy that was 
fast turning their friendship into gall, 


AND O THER TALES . 


-9 


although each tried to hide the secret 
from the other and treat him with that 
honor that has long been a character- 
istic of the South. Thus time went on 
up to the opening of the great. Re- 
bellion when every person necessarily 
paused and looked within himself to 
see what passions were reflected there-! 
in. 

Then was the great dividing of fam- 
ilies and friends, either for principle or 
selfishness, and putting on the armor 
of Mars, men plunged into the great 
purifying flame regardless of whether 
the residium would be gold or dross. 
With these conflicting sentiments, liv- 
ing on the border land as they did, the 
two friends found themselves facing 
each other, one in loyal blue and the 
other in confederate gray — John look- 
ing to the sentiment of the North, Joe 
to the vigor of the South. Neither had 
any direct interest in the issue, but the 
fair Elsie had for she was heir to am- 
ple cotton fields, in which on that very 
day fifty Africans toiled and sang their 
wild giberish. 

So the young men departed, one to 
uphold his lady-love’s rights, the other 
the sentiments of humanity, each ask- 
ing should the fortunes of war spare 
their return, the hand of their fair 
friend. How could she decide? her 
interests should be rewarded, but how 
about the interests of humanity?;* A 
secret pain and distrust of each other 
was in the hearts of the young men 
as they left the habitations of peace 
and rallied to the tocsin of war. "• A 


rankling jealousy was in the heart of ;; 
Joe. Interests should be paid for and 
the hand of the fair was always the re- 
ward of the defending knight, but in 
this case there seemed to be an un- 
certainty. 

Then came War, red War. The 
first year brought Southern ascendency 
and to their soldiers haughty superior 
ity ; to the Northern sentimentality it. 
added dogged resistance and a harden- 
ing of the muscles for the final death 
struggle. In two years that struggle 
came, but it was not Southern suprem- 
acy. It was a battle .of drilled and 
tried antagonists and in whose breast 
was to be found no sentiment. The 
three years’ experience of the young 
Virginians had made them men and on 
their shoulders rested the insignia of 
command. Their faces bronzed and 
bearded were - set with determination 
and intense passion. 

On a bright May day an observer 
might have seen a man emerging from 
among the confederate tents, dressed 
in shabby citizen’s clothing and carry- 
ing an old musket. To the ordinary 
observer he appeared to be carelessly 
sauntering about, but the practised eye 
could detect in the quick glance and 
circuitous route, an object. The man 
passed through little gullies and behind 
clumps of trees, logs and other imped- 
iments. After continuing; in this course 
for several miles the man came to a 
standstill. Below him in a wooded 
ravine were encamped a body of con- 
federates and . on the ridge crawling 


THE PROMISED LAUD. 


30 


with snake like motion was a detach- 
ment of the Union skirmishers, evident- 
ly intent on surprising them. A young 
officer standing behind a tree seemed 
to be directing the manoeuvre. 

The face of the creeping scout, for 
such the man was, wore a look of curi- 
osity as he spied the movement ; but 
it gradually assumed an expression of 
intense passion as his eyes rested upon 
the young officer. He brought his gun 
to the ground and rummaged his pock- 
ets for ammunition which seemed to 
be lacking. Powder in plenty was 
produced but no bullet seemed to be 
in readiness. At last one was found 
but he seemed to hesitate about using 
it ; but after another look at the young 
officer he dropped it into the barrel, 
drove it home with the ramrod, aimed 
and fired. 

The officer fell and the scout ran to- 
ward the camp of Confederates now 
aroused by the report of his gun. 

In the course of time Lee surrender- 
ed at Appomatox and with him ended 
the contest of the great rebellion. Jo- 
seph Gray with a multitude of others 
went forth with feelings only such as 
the vanquished can know. As he gaz- 
ed around him he saw only evidences 
of the struggle, — habitations and in- 
stitutions destroyed, families separated 
and in place of once happy homes, on- 
ly blackened and sepulchral ruins. 
Even these dismal scenes were the 
spoils of the victors, and the carpet- 
bagger was in his glory. It was a sick- 
ening sensation that Joseph felt as he 


looked around him to see where he 
could cast his lot. He thought of that 
old Virginian town where he had pass- 
ed his boyhood, and Elsie Lee ; but 
somehow he was unable to bear the 
recollections of that face. Although 
sentiment had conquered, he felt he 
might win his old sweet heart ; but one 
of her champions had follen and his 
blood was on his hands. With a feel- 
ing of intense hatred he turned his eyes 
toward the detested North as a more 
promising field of activity and began 
the study of medicine. In this he suc- 
ceeded in developing into the deep- 
sighted physician. To those around 
him no thought of man, woman, or 
child seemed to enter his mind ; noth- 
ing but that singleness of purpose — 
success in his profession. There were 
times, however, when his thoughts 
would return to his birthplace and wish 
that one act of his life could be erased. 

As for Williams, he survived the war, 
although he was doomed for many 
years to suffer from the effects of a 
wound in the head. A bullet that was 
ment to be fatal he still carried where 
it would be a remembrance of the great 
struggle. He had returned to his native 
place to spend the manhood of his days 
and had settled down to home life with 
Elsie Lee as a companion. She had 
lost her patrimony but sentiment had 
conquered her along with her estate 
and she now spent her time in educat- 
ing for citizenship those who before 
had been her vassals. Occasionally as' 
they would sit at nightfall and watch 


AND OTHER TALES . 


S' 


the declining sun, they would think of 
other days and the companion who 
had not returned from the fiery fur- 
nace. Sometimes across the dreams 
of John Williams came a lightning flash 
and a familiar form ; but that form did 
not come now. It had been swallowed 
up in the great strife, and amid the sur- 
roundings of peace the mantle of chari- 
ty settled over all. 

As the time went on the effects of 
the wound became more apparent to 
Williams. There was weight on his 
brain and symptoms of blood poison 
ing presented themselves, and in a 
northern city, years later, a sudden 
darkness came over him and when he 
had awakened he had found himself in 
a hospital. 

Time and disease had changed him. 
His figure stooped. His hair was sil- 
vered and recognition by his boyhood 
friends was well-nigh impossible. Doc- 
tor Gray might have performed surgi- 
cal operations upon scores of persons, 
whose looks might have reminded him 
as much of the dim years of his youth. 
But here was indisputable evidence. 
That bullet with the message it con- 
tained had once been familiar to him. 


With it came back the recollection of a 
jealous, murderous intent that once fill- 
ed his heart. The thought had come 
with lightning rapidity, also the exe- 
cution, Remorse for the act had been 
for long years eating at his heart- 
strings, and it now seemed that the re- 
sult of that moment of rashness had 
been of slow consumation. Was the 
end of it at hand, or did he possess the 
means of restitution ? The doctor was 
a calm, cold man, but at the thought a 
flood of warm, joyous blood went surg- 
ing through his veins. It is not often 
that man can undo a wrong, but Prov- 
idence seemed to be on his side and a 
wild, unconquerable longing took pos- 
session of him. 

Williams was under the doctor’s 
hands for some weeks, but later, two 
men traveled southward. One might 
have been recognized as John Wiliams, 
but the other would scarcely have been 
called by old acquaintances Doctor 
Gray, for restitution of wrong had 
wrought a great change in him. His 
coldness and austerity had disappeared 
and in its place was the joyous sim- 
plicity of returning youth. 





. • ,-i • • , i 

THE E VOL UTION OF A TRAMP . 

. i ■' 


•: J . 

Ernest Gilbert, after many a heart- 
felt “God bless you” and tearful hand- 
shaking with his widowed mother, 
left his parental home on his twenty- 
first birthday, to seek his fortune in this 
wide world of ours. There were a few 
teardrops on his cheeks, but his step 
was eager and buoyant. In half an 
hour an express train was rapidly bear- 
ing him away from the familiar village 
and its surroundings in which his youth 
had been passed, toward a city which 
held out alluring inducements that life 
could be made useful and happy, and 
wealth easily gained. 

What his thoughts were it would be 
needless to relate, for one glance at his 
smiling, confident face would have dis- 
closed them. 

It was a bad time, so business men 
said, one of those financial depressions ; 
and Ernest wandered about the streets 
calling at counting rooms and offices 
for work, but in vain. The daily pa- 
pers were scanned and the “wants” 
answered, only to find a dozen appli- 
cants on the grrund before him. 

Then there seemed to be a need of 


men in a city farther on, and Ernest 
determined to push his way onward. 
This time his step was less buoyant, 
and his face less confident. On his 
arrival, the same condition of things 
seemed to prevail as in the place he 
had just left ; but Ernest’s condition 
had changed. He was nearly out of 
money. .! . j • 

He thought of sending to his mother 
for a fresh supply; but remembering, 
with what difficulty she had eked out 
the scanty amount he had taken on his 
departure, he refrained. 

There were other large places, he 
would push on. Perhaps his star would 
yet be in the ascendant. This time, 
however, he had to foot it. 

These places were singularly alike ini 
many respects. Each could furnish 
him with no work y and each pointed 
out allurements in places farther on. 

Finally he came to his last cent, not 
even enough to pay the postage on a 
letter to his mother to ask for help ; he 
came to that point where hunger had 
to be appeased • and he had no re- 
sources with which to -satisfy, it. This 


34 


THE PROMISED LAND , 


was the point where his freedom ended 
and begging began. 

This was a new sensation, and the 
treatment he received shocked him — 
debased him in his own estimation. 
People to whom he applied for food 
would point to his little portmanteau 
and to his clothes as not the belongings 
of a begger. In vain would he tell 
them his story and ask for work. He 
exchanged his ring, his shirt buttons 
and other small things, which he could 
do without, for food ; and slept in out- 
buildings, under bridges, fences — any- 
where for shelter. 

Occasionally he would get the chance 
to exchange an hour’s sawing of wood 
or a similar job for a meal, but he was 
generally made to feel that he was a 
thief or some other public malfactor 
Yet he retained a certain amount of 
self-respect and pride, and told them 
the same simple story of his misfortunes. 

At length the days began to shorten 
and he felt the need of more clothing 
an* 1 better shelter at night. About 
this time he arrived at a large manu- 
facturing place, which held out some 
inducement of a possibility of work. 
Ernest determed to await this possi- 
bility ; and placing as much of his ex- 
tra clothing on his person as possible, 
he pawned the remainder for a small 
sum of money ; and then looked around 
for shelter. 

In every town there are several 
grades of society, with sharp separat- 
ing lines. These classes are formed of 
the same elements it is true, yet they 


are as unlike as day and night. There 
are fashionable hotels in which dwell, 
side by side, the successful gambler 
and the gifted divine ; and there the 
boarding houses which are crowded 
with vagabonds and scoundrels, who 
have, someway, outwitted justice and 
missed the wages of their rascality — 
workmen and workwomen in all the 
trades of wickedness ; the residuum of 
first-class society — not from want of 
morality, but want of Success. 

It was in one of the latter that Er- 
nest took up his lodgings. Not that 
he was attracted by the dark entrance 
and sound of revelry, but because they 
were cheap. He purchased a small 
amount of food and only took his lodg 
ings here. 

When he entered there were but few 
persons in the apartment which served 
both as bar and sitting room ; but to- 
ward the close of the evening the house 
was crowded. Those present cast 
curious, and not altogether friendly 
glances at him, for by his appearance 
they judged that he had not been 
properly initiated into their order. 
These glances made Ernest shrink into 
an unobserved corner. The inmates 
were composed of both men and wo- 
men ; and they seemed to belong to 
different sets. The principal diversions 
were card playing and drinking. 

I have said that the inmates formed 
separate sets ; but there was one ex- 
ception. This was a young woman 
apparently abou* twenty years of age. 
She seemed to be the favorite of all. 


AND of hAr tales. 


35 


First one group arid then another would 
ask her to become one of their num- 
ber. She accepted or declined with 
the utmost freedom. She drank deep- 
ly, received caresses either indifferently 
or ran away coquettishly. 

At last all were clamorous for a song 
and this girl stepped upon a rude bench 
and sang a familiar love song. She 
had a strong, sweet voice, and it re- 
minded Ernest of his home, and his 
mother. In spite of his efforts, 
the tears ran down his cheeks. 
A boisterous drinking song followed and 
closed amid great applause. 

As a fitting finale, all hands seemed 
to think it necessary to take a drink. 
One brutish looking man in elevating 
his eyes to the ceiling that he might 
get the last drop in his glass, caught 
sight of poor Ernest, with the tear drops 
still glistening on his face. In an in- 
stant the glass was hurled with full 
force at his head. 

“An interloper ! Out with him !” he 
cried. 

So quick, and unexpected was the 
attack, that Ernest had not time to 
dodge the missile. It was aimed at his 
head, but swayed a little to one side, 
giving him a glancing blow on the[tem- 
ple. The blow dazed him for a mo- 
ment, and the wound, though not dan- 
gerous, bled copiously. 

The man rose to his feet and would 
have followed the attack by some other 
demonstration, but the girl just men- 
tioned, rushed past him, giving him a 
vigorous push which sent him to the 


floor. 

“Wretch 1” she cried, “did you mean 
to kill him?” With a dish of water 
she bathed the wound and bound up 
his head with her pocket handkerchief 
— perhaps none ot the cleanest — yet 
with all the kindness of the greatest 
lady in the land. Then, perhaps, for 
the want of something else to do. she 
seized a full glass of liquor that stood 
on a table, and held it to his lips. Er- 
nest, in his dazed condition, drank it 
all. 

This was the first liquor he had ever 
drank, and its fiery nature caught in a 
moment in his brain and filled him with 
an insane fury. He struggled to free 
himself from the friendly girl, but she 
clung to him clQser than ever. 

“Stay !” she cried, “you are no match 
for them !” 

For a few moments Ernest struggled 
but after the first wild impulse was over, 
a stupor seized him and he slept. 

When he awoke it was broad day- 
light. He lay upon a bed in an attic 
chamber. The furniture about the 
room was scanty, besides the bed were 
two chairs and a bureau with a small 
cracked glass. The bed-cloths were 
somewhat dirty, but on the wall was a 
cheap painting and in the window a 
hanging plant, betokening the hand of 
woman. 

Ernest looked out of the narrow win- 
dow. The sun was sinking in the west, 
and he was forced to the conclusion 
that he had slept all day. How his 
head ached ! He lay on the bed and 


3 <> 


THE PROMISED LAND. 


groaned. 

Whether it was the groan or an ac- 
cident that brought the girl of the night 
before into the room just then, Ernest 
never knew, but it was a fact that she 
came. 

"Well, Innocence,” she said with a 
smile in which there looked forth a 
friendly pity and a sneer, "how do you 
feel after your combat?” 

Ernest looked at her a moment with- 
out speaking. Her face, in spite of its 
sinister expression, showed an intelli- 
gent and kindly look. 

"My head aches,” he said simply. 

"Oh, Innocence, you are not used to 
the rough way of the world,” and say- 
ing this she went out. 

She came back in a moment bring- 
ing a dish of cold water and a bottle. 

"Perhaps you may think me hard 
hearted, Innocence,” she said, "but I 
am not. Here, let me bathe your 
head.” 

Ernest moved over that she might 
more easily do it, and then said : 

"What do you call me Innocence 
for?” The girl laughed. 

"You are very innocent to ask such 
a question ; but I will not tell you till 
you get over your headache. I will 
give you something to cure you,” and 
she turned out a glass of spirits from 
the bottle. 

"There, turn over and go to sleep.” 

Ernest fell asleep and dreamed — 
dreamed of his mother, but her form 
was strangely distorted with that 
of the girl who now ministered 


to his wants. It was morning when 
he awoke and with his first move the 
girl appeared. • 

"Oh,” she said, "you are awake.” 

"Yes.” 

She left the room and soon returned 
with a dish of water and a towel. 

"There, you can make your toilet, 
and I wish my means were more abun- 
dant.” 

After Ernest had finished, the girl 
returned and invited him to the dinu.g 
room, which proved to be the same 
bar-room which he had first entered, 
she seated him at one of the card tables 
and then brought in a tray containing 
bread, two cups of muddy coffee and a 
half-dozen large oranges, which she 
pressed him to eat. 

"You will feel better then,” she said. 

When they had finished their repast 
she said : — "Don’t you want some 
music?” Not waiting for,a reply she 
got an old guitar to accompany her 
song. 

The song again brought the tears to 
Ernest’s eyes. 

"Oh, I did not mean to make you 
feel bad, Innocence,” she said, "I 
thought I was going to cheer you ; but 
we will take a holiday tonight and go 
to the theatre.” 

The girl entertained to the best of 
her ability during the afternoon, and 
true to her word, just before the scum 
of the city began to pour into this den 
of wickedness, they went forth upon 
the street. As they were going by a 
brilliantly lighted saloon, she stopped 


AND OTHER TALES. 


37 


and said : 

“You stay here a moment ; it’s my 
treat tonight.” 

She tripped lightly into the saloon, 
in behind the counter and filled a small 
bag with confectionary, then passed 
out with a shy smile to the proprietor. 

“Is that all the pay I am to have, 
Beauty?” said he, trying to catch her 
by the arm. 

“All tonight,” she said, and she pass- 
ed out of the door, laughing. 

Ernest had watched her operations 
with surprise, and looked at her won- 
deringly as she tripped lightly down 
the steps. 

“Don’t be shocked, Innocence,” she 
said, “there are two methods of get- 
ting merchandise — one is by cheque 
and the other by cheek - my cheek is 
a cheque on any bank in the city. 

The girl had spoken truly ; at the 
theatre entrance she simply pushed 
Ernest in before her, and the only fee 
was a familiar pat on the shoulder of 
the door-keeper. 

After the play they left the theatre 
in silence and walked along the street 
until they were within a short distance 
of the den which the girl called home, 
when she suddenly stopped and said : 

“To-morrow you must leave us, for 
this is no place for you.” 

“Leave you !” said Ernest, “How 
can I ? I am without money, without 
work, without friends or home.” 

The girl looked at him a moment in 
a painful way, and said : 

“Then you are doomed, Innocence, 


and if you stay with us you will lose 
your name.” 

“But what can 1 do?” said Ernest, 
“I must live somehow.” 

“The genteelest profession of our so- 
ciety is robbery. It is a profitable 
business, but it is death to be found 
out,” said the girl with a mock smile. 

“But I can’t do that,” said Ernest. 

“Then I must get you a vagabond 
profession ; and may God — if there is 
one — pity you. Come, we are at the 
door, and if you are to become one of 
us, it is time you took your first lesson 
in debauchery.” 

Ernest seized her arm. “Who are 
you?” said he. 

The girl stopped. 

At length she said, “I am known as 
‘Beauty’. Once I had another name ; 
but beauty of face is all that is left of 
my former self ; so I have no other 
name. Let’s go in.” 

The next day the girl said, “now I 
will show you your vocation.” 

They went out upon the street and 
soon entered the waiting room of a 
depot. 

“In there,” said she pointing to a 
cuspadore, “you will find old cigar 
stumps and dried tobacco quids which 
you can pick out and carry to a cigar- 
ette factory. If you do well, in a 
week or so you will lose your name of 
Innocence and we will call you doctor ; 
for the only difference between you 
and a M. D., is that he deals out opi- 
ates to benumb the reason of his pa- 
tients, and you will deal out imbecility 


3 * 


THE PROMISED LAND, 


to Young America that they may never 
know the cares and trials of life.” 

“Oh, don’t be shocked !” she said 
as she saw Ernest shudder ; “you have 
a humane profession. You give scope 
to benevolence. You furnish the 
philanthropist’s idiotic and insane asy- 
lums with inmates ; their physicians 
and nurses with patients. Then it is a 
matter of economy, these pay the as- 
sessments to the only life assurance to 
which you or I are eligible. The much 
abused rich man is thoughtful and gen- 
erous of the time when all men be- 
come equal ; for if they build marble 
tombs for their own post mortem resi- 
dences, they also erect lofty mauso- 
leums for us — if not f >r our long rest, 
at least to die in.” 

Several months passed, and Ernest 
Gilbert was up before the police court 
for. larceny. At the trial a young wo- 
man unexpectedly appeared and gave 
evidence of an alibi. Whether it was 
the strength of her evidence that dis- 
missed the prisoner or a wish to do her 
a favor is not known, but Ernest soon 
found himself walking in the street with 
the young woman whose cognomen was 
Beauty. 

“Innocence,” said she, “you must 
get out of this ! You can never play 
your role ! You had better be a tramp 
and die of hunger by the roadside, 
than in jail a second-rate rascal.” 

“Oh, Beauty, if I go I shall die and 
will you cast me off so easily?” 

“Innocence, the outcast has no 
friends” but seeing the expression of 


pain on his face, she added : “But if it 
would please you, God knows — if there 
is any — God knows I shall think of 
you ! Now go, poor Innocence,” and 
she turned and walked rapidly down 
the street. 

Ernest looked after her till she was 
out of sight. “Shall I do as this wo- 
man said? Surely as she says, I am 
not a success as a thief !” 

“Yes, I will go, for I am no use to 
any one here !” 

In an hour’s time he was outside the 
city limits and traveling toward his 
native town. If the residents along the 
way could have remembered the tramp 
of a year before, they would have no- 
ticed a great change in him. Not the 
faintest gleam of hope illumined his 
face now, nothing but total indiffer- 
ence. 

I will not relate his life on the road. 
It was simply a repetition of his for- 
mer experience. One night he lay 
down beside the road with no covering 
but the canopy of heaven. During the 
night a damp, cold rain fell ; and in 
the morning Ernest was stiff and be- 
numbed with cold. He hobbled along 
as best he could to the next house and 
asked to warm himself. The woman 
who opened the door had a gleam of 
pity in her face gave him a place by 
the kitchen fire, and got him a cup of 
coffee. 

The coffee and the warmth seemed 
to make his cold visible and when he 
tried to get up he fell to the floor in 
an insensible condition. 


AND OTHER TALES. 


39 


This was the beginning of a long 
fever. The woman and her husband 
were very kind to him, and when he 
was again able to go upon the road, 
something of his old pride and a feel- 
ing of thankfulness came over him. He 
told the pair that he was poor, indeed 
a tramp, but if work could pay for their 
trouble he would be glad to stay with 
them ; but their kindness could never 
be repaied. 

In a year he had paid the expense 
of his sickness and clothed himself in 
a respectable manner. 

One night he said to his employer, 
that he would like a vacation. 

He then told them his story and of 
the girl, Beauty, who had once saved 
his life. 

“She was stronger than I then, but 
now I hope I am the stronger and I 
am going to save her. 


Next morning Ernest started for the 
city — not on foot this time but by rail. 
How he accomplished his purpose in 
regard to the outcast girl is not known. 
There was an inate sense of rectitude 
about her, notwithstanding her life. 
Whether she needed much persuasion 
is not known but it is a fact that she 
came back with him. 

In time there was a great change in 
her. Her old life and hardened ex- 
pression of her face disappeared — 
leaving the sad experience of yester- 
day, it is true, but also a beauty not 
there before. Her name, now fitted 
her character as well as her face — all 
because God had sent her a saviour, 
she said — but it seemed to have been 
dropped with her old life, for when 
some months later she accompanied 
Ernest on a visit to his old home, he 
introduced her as Mrs. Ernest Gilbert. 


































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THE FANATIC HERALD . 


A few years ago the writer found 
himself an indigent student, seeking 
work, the proceeds of which were to 
go toward defraying the expenses of a 
course of study. Being of a mechani- 
cal turn of mind, I passed from work- 
shop to workshop in search of-employ- 
ment.At last a man was found who seem- 
ed to have some interest in the higher 
studies, who expressed himself as 
pleased to help a deserving student, 
and thus the narrator became an em- 
ploye at the Ingerly Mills. 

These mills manufactured various 
kinds of wooden ware, and the work 
men were divided into three classes — 
machine men, bench hands and finish- 
ers. The superintendent placed me 
among the bench hands, and I soon 
found myself hammering away in a 
large room with a row of benches ex- 
tending around its outer edge so as to 
be near the windows, at every one of 
which was placed a man. A number 
of boys, dragging small trucks, acted 
as messengers to the numerous work- 
men in carrying the finished and un- 
finished parts of the work from one 


place to another, packing the same in 
boxes, their compensation depend- 
ing upon the number of boxes carried. 
My work was a piece of mechanical 
drudgery, and to make the hours seem 
shorter, I used to ponder on the small 
bits of conversation thrown out by my 
brother workmen as a means of de 
ciphering their character. I know not 
what good or evil genius placed me 
between two diametrically opposite 
characters, each of which was to have 
some influence upon me, and one of 
which was doomed to enlist my deep- 
est sympathy. 

My immediate neighbor on the right, 
Gilbert Greene, was an old man, slow, 
methodic, particular and patient, whose 
efforts had never been crowned with 
success from a worldly point of view. 
He worked hard all day, went home to 
that little cottage he called his own by 
virtue of that hard work, pulled a few 
weeds from his garden, sat down to his 
plainly spread supper table, although 
once in a while luxury appeared there, 
much as a forced smile appears upon 
our face, to be partaken of sparingly, 


42 


THE PROMISED LAND. 


after which he would read a few items 
in the penny paper or listens to an air 
which struggled for poetic expression 
under the fingers of his daughter from 
the keys of a cheap organ, finishing up 
the day with an anthem of thanksgiv- 
ing for present sustenance, and a 
prayer — an agonized prayer — to the 
Ruler of the universe, that his health 
and strength might be spared so long 
as it pleased that august being to give 
him life, that he might keep the gaunt 
wolf of poverty from the door. 

On the left stood a man, Walter 
Cooke, of an entirely different type. 
He was energetic, usually just, and of 
so strong a will that he generally had 
his own way. He received more pay 
than any other man in the establish- 
ment, simply because he would not 
work for less ; and not only did he sup- 
port himself and aged mother, but 
owned the handsomest cottage in the 
village, to say nothing of a snug little 
bank account. He had a strong sense 
of right and wrong, and so aggressive 
was his character that he and Superin- 
tendent Ingerly — for the mills and 
hamlet were named after that magnate 
— had many a hot discussion in regard 
to the rights of the workmen and the 
treatment they received. His justice 
was also tempered with mercy, for if a 
brother workman was sick or injured, 
it was Cooke who started the subscrip- 
tion paper for his relief and headed it 
with a generous donation ; nor did he 
consider that his duty ended with death, 
for the widow always had some means 


of subsistence, sometimes in a manner 
inexplicable to the villagers, and the 
fatherless were provided for. Cooke, 
like Greene, spent his evenings at 
home. He, too, sat down to a frugal 
supper, for he was temperate in mat- 
ters of eating and drinking, and while 
his mother always had a liberal supply 
of tea,«he drank cold water. When 
the supper was finished he would take 
down a volume from a well filled book- 
case and read for many ,hours, after 
which he would walk the floor of the 
little sitting room with feverish stride 
and knotted brow, pondering on what 
he had read. There was a religious vein 
in this man, also, although no prayer 
either of thanksgiving or supplication 
ever passed his lips. Perhaps he did 
not realize the amount of his present 
blessings, and as for his strength fail- 
ing him at some future time, it did not 
enter his head. As h.e passed into his 
sleeping apartment and his eyes met a 
motto on the wall, a smile which re- 
flected both sadness and joy would play 
on his features, as he thought of the 
worn hand of his old Methodist moth- 
er, who had wrought each curious old 
English letter, and then the smile would 
settle into a determined but peaceful 
tranquility, very much as the ripples 
on a lake settle when the breeze has 
died out, showing the polished pebbles 
sleeping within its bosom, as he read 
the words she would implant : 

“Do unto others as you would have 
them do unto you.” 

About the time of the opening of 


AND OTHER TALES. 


this story, labor agitation was coming 
into prominence, and Cooke was among 
the first to embrace many of the doc- 
trines of labor reform. A passionate 
man, he was not sparing in arguments, 
nor a lespector of persons, and soon 
gained both a numerous following of 
disciples and an army of foes. Equal 
pay for equal work, shorter hours of 
labor, by-laws and shop rules, adopted 
by a joint meeting of employers, was 
what he advocated, all of which were 
strongly opposed by Superintendent 
Ingerlv, who said he had always run 
his mill, and he proposed to do so in 
the future or go out of business. Had 
Cooke’s followers possessed as equal 
measure of his own courage and faith, 
there doubtless would have been trouble 
at once ; but the superintendent had 
calculated rightly on the effect his 
threat to go out of business would pro- 
duce on the workman. They were 
afraid. In vain did Cooke argue that 
they were asking that which was only 
their just due, and that Ingerly was 
just as dependent on the mill as the 
meanest workman. At last he settled 
down to the fact that the workmen 
must be educated up to the idea, and 
as a preliminary he must educate and 
fit himself. Thus he busied himself in 
physics, chemistry and social science. 

After studying in these subjects, 
his arguments took a different course. 
He heralded a change that must take 
place in human affairs sometime, and 
urged, the people to be ready for that 
change, hoping that a far-off glimpse 


would be more inspiring than the near- 
er view had been. The superintend- 
ent noticed the change, and judging it 
to be the effect of disappointment, cast 
a cynical smile of triumph upon him 
whenever they met. This exasperated 
Cooke to such a degree that it was all 
he could do at times to keep his hands 
from doing him violence. 

A young boy, George Stephens, 
whose mother was a widow, served as 
messenger for Cooke and myself, and, 
as before stated, received compensa- 
tion for the number of boxes carried. 
Cooke had a skillful way of tossing his 
work into the boxes that made packing 
well nigh needless, thereby putting 
quite an increase of wages into the 
boy’s pockets. Superintendent Ingerly 
had noticed the increase, but whether 
he had detected the means employed 
I know not ; but it is enough that 
George was earning more than he in- 
tended that class of workmen to earn ; 
so he cut him down. 

This touched Cooke in a tender spot, 
and he interviewed the superintendent 
in regard to it. He endeavored to 
show the unjustness of the act, but In- 
gerly either maintained a cool indiffer- 
ence or answered haughtily “that it 
was none of his business.” So hot 
grew the discussion and so insolent was 
the superintendent, that Cooke seemed 
entirely to forget himself with passion. 
At last, with a mighty effort, he struck 
him a powerful blow directly in the 
face, completely lifting him from the 
floor and falling him backwards. He 


44 


THE PROMISED LAND , 


struck several obstacles in falling and 
sank with a groan in an insensible con- 
dition. 

For a moment there was silence. 
The deed had taken away the breath 
of the spectators. The sympathy of 
the crowd had been with Cooke, but 
there seemed to be an instantaneous 
revolution of feeling, for they had re- 
garded Ingerly with so much awe, that 
it seemed little less than deity who had 
fallen. When they roused from their 
panic a number of cries arose upon the 
air : — 

“Murder !” “Seize him !” “He has 
killed the superintendent.” 

Had there been any concerted ac- 
tion perhaps they w uld have lynched 
the daring workman on the spot ; as it 
was, some ran to the assistance of In- 
gerly, some tried to seize Cooke, while 
the larger part of them ran hither and 
thither, they knew not where nor for 
what. The animal nature was still up- 
permost in Cooke and he backed into 
a corner to defend himself. Whether 
there was something in this lion at bay 
that awed the besiegers or whether the 
increasing crowd around the fallen man 
called their attention to that quarter I 
know not, but when the tumult was 
over and the superintendent had been 
restored to consciousness and carried 
home, nothing was to be seen of Cooke. 

The commotion had attracted the 
notice of the villagers, and many of 
the prominent men urged that a com- 
plaint be made against this disturber 
of the peace. A number of the work- 


men offered to be willing messen- 
gers to procure a writ and bring an 
officer, but for some unknown reason 
superintendent Ingerly was not willing 
that a complaint should be made. 
Whether he felt secretly that he was at 
fault, or whether there was a sense of 
shame that he should have been the 
ignominious victim of an action like 
this is not known. The mill run on as 
usual, the excitement died away, and in 
about a week the superintendent re- 
sumed his duties none the worse for his 
encounter except a highly colored eye ; 
but Cooke’s bench remained vacant. 
No one had seen him since that event- 
ful hour except his mother. On the 
fatal day he had visited the cottage, 
imprinted a kiss upon her forehead, 
and disappeared, much to her aston- 
ishment, and as she learned of the 
affray — her anguish. 

The Sabbath is the workingman’s 
holiday. At that time he generally 
follows the bent of his inclinations. Be- 
ing somewhat of a naturalist, I took to 
the fields to study nature. 

On the Sabbath following the ex- 
citing events just narrated, I was in the 
fields as usual. I had already spent 
several hours picking up here and there 
a stone or flower, watching and reflect- 
ing upon the insects and birds that 
came in my way. I was thinking of 
returning, for the sun was already sink 
ing behind the mountains that bounded 
the western horizon, when I saw a man 
coming towards me whose gait seemed 
familiar, and on nearer approach l 


AND OTHER TALES . 


45 


found it to be Cooke. He looked pale 
and emaciated, and as he came up and 
held out his hand he said somewhat 
hastily, — 

“I think you are a friend to me, and 
seeing you in the fields I have come to 
ask you for a favor. I am on my way 
to deliver myself up to justice. I have 
undone in a moment what it has taken 
me years to build up, and should suffer 
the penalty. It was cowardly to run 
away. I am young and may accom- 
plish my purpose. Here take that — 
taking out his pocket-book and hand 
ing it to me — take that to my mother 
and see that she wants nothing until I 
can make different arrangements.” 

“But why not go home to her?” I 
asked. “There has been no complaint 
made against you?” 

“No complaint? Is he not dead?” 

I explained to him the situation, and 
he sat down upon the grass completely 
overcome. Silence reigned for some 
time, broken at last by Cooke in a low 
tone : 

“You don’t know how I have suffer 
ed ! The injustice of Ingerly’s posi- 
tion and his insolence - saying we had 
no rights except what he might choose 
to give us — making slaves of us ! How 
angry I was ! I could have torn him 
limb from limb simply because I could 
get no immediate redress in any other 
way ! Then when, in trying to help 
the weak, I had commited violence, to 
see those who had urged me on turn 
against me made me so crazy that I 
would — rather than to be taken or 


hunted down by that ungrateful crowd 
— I would to that one crime have added 
a dozen more ! During the moment’s 
silence that ensued after I had struck 
Ingerly, I felt remorse, and would have 
given myself up ; but to be forced by 
those cowardly traitors — never ! So I 
fled, but everything seemed against me. 
I am usually sure-footed, but I tripped 
at every little stone and stick. I could 
see neither brook nor fence when I 
came to them. My tumbles seemed 
to excite my nerves. At every halt I 
could hear the wheezy breath of my 
pursuers. Trees and stones took on 
the forms of running men. My in- 
stinct — for I used no reason — took me 
to the woods, and there I ran hither 
and thither I knew not where. The 
sun sank out of sight and the moon 
arose--the slenderest of boats — and sent 
in the dimmest and most spectral light 
among the branches of the trees. It 
seemed to further excite my nerves 
and urge me on. How long I ran I 
don’t know, but at last I sank exhaust- 
ed. I must have slept for many hours 
for when I awoke it was broad day. 
Oh ! how my head ached ! I felt so 
sick that I did not care whether I was 
taken or not ! Thus I tossed all day on 
a bed of ferns upon which I had ac- 
cidently fallen ! Then I again fell 
asleep. When I awoke the darkness 
of night was being dissipated by the 
first rays of the morning sun. My 
headache was gone and in its place the 
dull feeling usually left by over ex- 
citement. My throat was parched and 


THE PROMISED LAND . 


46 


I was thirsty, and after lying a few 
moments I got up to see if I could find 
some water. I was upon a raised ledge 
to the east of which was a deep ravine. 
After listening a few moments I could 
detect the murmur of a small brook in 
in this valley. I went down and took 
a long draught of the cool water and 
bathed my burning temples. Then I 
returned to the ledge. The day was 
breaking. The birds were singing 
their matins, and the barking of a dog 
caused me to look down the valley 
where I caught a glimpse of the work- 
a-day world I had so rudely left — the 
world so hateful to me. The gnawing 
of hunger soon caused me to look 
around for food, an 1 I found an abun- 
dance of berries. Then I sat down to 
think over my situation. I had evi- 
dently out-run my pursuers, and had 
been left in this place to ponder over 
the crime I had committed. I felt I 
had done a cowardly thing in running 
away. But, Oh ! the agony it cost me 
to give up liberty or life ; but after 
awhile I concluded to do so if need 
be.” 

We sat for a little while in silence, 
when Cooke said : — 

“It seems hard to give up agitation 
when there are so many men, women 
and children working from dawn till 
dark in poorly heated and ill-ventilated 
factories, some of them reeking with 
the breath of deadly chemicals — work- 
ing, many of them, for the mere pit- 
tance of a little bread, a few clothes, 
and a place to sleep in, and whose 


only rest when worn out is the much 
boasted homestead of Uncle Sam’s — 
a pauper’s lot in the graveyard. Is it 
any wonder that many of them grow 
discouraged and drown their sorrows 
and their responsibilities in the intoxi- 
cating cup, when they see the wealth 
they have created go to support those 
who toil not. But there is a change 
coming — I know not what it will be — 
but I feel it coming. 

We sat for some time saying little. 
Cooke brooding over his agitated pas- 
sions and I with mixed feelings of awe, 
pity and admiration. The sun had 
gone down ; the roseate hues of the 
twilight were fading and the new moon, 
like the cold gleaming of a cimeter, 
was rising, when my companion said : 

“Come, let’s go to the village. I 
must face the music !” 

We arose from our reclining position 
upon the ground and set our faces to- 
ward where the domestic lights showed 
the village to be. As we passed 
Greene’s cottage Cooke remarked : — 

“Poor Greene ! By his frugality he 
has made a home for himself, which, 
unless that earnest prayer of his be an- 
swered, will have to be sold to pay his 
funeral expenses. Such is the reward 
of the patient toiler.” 

We soon arrived at Cooke’s house, 
and just before bidding me good-night, 
he said : 

“My poor mother ! How I have 
made her suffer !” 

The next morning Cooke called up- 
on the superintendent, and while he 


AND OTHER TALES. 


47 


still held to the justness of the cause of 
the unlucky blow, admitted his error 
in allowing his passions to assume con- 
trol, telling him he was ready to suffer 
any penalty he might have in mind to 
inflict if it would in any way repair the 
injury. 

Ingerly was, no doubt, secretly 
pleased to see this man in any way sup- 
plient before him. It probably helped 
to heal his wounded vanity, but whether 
the superintendent tacitly acknowl- 
edged his wrong or whether he secret- 


ly respected and admired the work- 
man’s will, I know not ; but he half 
admitted himself in fault and said he 
wished to inflict no punishment. 
Cooke did not suppose he would be 
wanted any longer as a workman, and 
was surprised, therefore, when urged 
to remain. Another surprise awaited 
him — although the superintendent did 
not inform him of this — and that was 
that George Stephens’ pay had been 
restored to its former amount. 



THE CENTURY-CLOCK. 


When a man begins to reach the 
limit of his three score years and ten, 
he is freely given a license in judge- 
ment and story telling, which is denied 
him in his earlier years. Nearly every- 
one in looking back over the past, 
say that their life has been unevent- 
ful, and mine is no exception to the 
general rule ; but there is one incident, 
which came under my observation, 
which I would crave the liberty of re- 
lating. 

1 was a beardless youth in a New 
England village, when the Californian 
gold fever broke out in 1848 ; and, like 
many another, sought adventure and 
wealth in that famous Eldorado. There 
I passed twelve years digging gold, 
amid all the ups and downs of a new 
civilization, — gaining much in experi- 
ence and little in wealth. In i860 I 
was among the few volunteers from 
that state, who went to the South to 
uphold the Union. Getting my 
discharge after four years of fight- 
ing, it was my determination to settle 
down in my native, northern village ; 
but after living a year in that quiet re- 


treat, however, I felt forced to bid 
parents, relatives and friends good by, 
and return to the golden country, where 
I had spent the flower of my manhood. 
The quiet was such a violent contrast 
to the noise and turmoil in which I 
had lived, that it seemed impossible 
for me to get used to it. 

During my earlier and more adven- 
turous life, as has been said before, I 
had made but few acquisitions of any 
kind ; but during my stay in the North 
I had made one which is deemed nec- 
essary, or at least important, by most 
men — a wife. This necessitated my 
settling on some place of residence and 
some occupation. After looking around 
I purchased a ranche in the southern 
part of California, and began farming. 

My settlement was made upon some 
improved land near an old deserted 
mission. I had for neighbors the usual 
assemblage in new countries of foreign- 
ers, Indians and Americans. The 
larger part of these were Indians, the 
remnant of those gathered around the 
mission, under the reign of the old 
Franciscan Friars. They had little 


THE PROMISED LAND, 


SO 


farms, and possessed what few effects 
the Franciscans had left. 

One corner of my land was near the 
deserted chapel ; and in fencing this 
portion of the ground I came 
upon a large agave, which attracted 
my attention to a large degree as it 
was rare in my vicinity. The plant 
gave evidence of being old and I took 
especial pains to preserve it uninjured, 
that I might have the pleasure of see 
ing it blossom. Plants of this species 
once produced, and still continue, the 
famous pulque of the Aztecs ; and speak- 
ing of this intoxicating drink brings me 
to the incident of my story. Drunk- 
enness was one of the vices of my 
neighbors. 

One day an Indi n somewhat intox- 
icated came to me with a manuscript 
book which he wished to sell, saying : 
“Some white men liked them.” 

I took the book and looked at it 
narrowly, and saw that it was about a 
century old. It was written in Spanish 
and I thought it might be some of the 
records of the old mission. I had a 
curiosity to look the book over, and as 
the Indian asked but a few cents for it 
I bought it. 

Age had somewhat dimmed the ink 
used, which I thought was made from 
the juice of some weeds that grew in 
the neighborhood, but was yet legible. 
The chirography was elegant, as if the 
writer had taken both pains and time ; 
and was illuminated with many vig- 
nettes. I had acquired a smattering 
of Spanish, or rather the Mexican pa- 


tois spoken in California ; and it prov- 
ed a sufficient guide with a little dili- 
gence for me to read the elegant Cas- 
tilian in which the book was 
written. It was not one of the mis- 
sion records, as I had supposed, but a 
diary of one of the earlier friars. Its 
contents so interested me, and was so 
connected with passing events, that I 
have determined to give extracts from 
it to my readers. I do not attempt a 
translation, but simply to give a sum- 
mary in my own words. 

The journal opened in the year 
1765, and was written by a young di- 
vinity student in the celebrated uni- 
versity of Salamanca. It was not a 
daily record, but contained now and 
then an entry. The first of these were 
in the shape of comments on the 
life the student was leading, an 
occasional note on the events of the 
university, or a remark on a fellow stu 
dent. 

If I was going to edit the manuscript 
I should divide it into, at least, three 
parts. The first part I would close 
with the university life of the student ; 
and the second I would open with his 
transfer to a Kranciscan monastery in 
the same city ; although in the origi- 
nal these events were run together. 

In this monastery we find the young 
Fray Francisco, for that was the name 
he adopted, persuing, at least as a part 
of his work, the missionary records of 
the earlier priests in the new world. At 
first the entries were merely comments ; 
but as I proceeded the comments 


AND OTHER TALES. 


S' 


ceased and a missionary spirit began to 
be manifested, which strengthened with 
a few pages into an established zeal. 

The nefct part I would bfegin with 
Fray Francisco’s transfer to Mexico as 
a devotee to missionery labor among 
the aborigines of America. 

The first account under this head 
was the ocean voyage, then came 
the country, its inhabitants and the 
priests met by the young monk. These 
accounts were enthusiastic, and in 
places highly imaginative. The narra- 
tive repre>ents the young priest as 
walking to the City of Mexico, stopping 
for prayer and meditation on the site 
of the ancient temple of Yucatan and 
the cities along the route, where Fath- 
er Almedo had wrought such mirieles 
in converting the natives during the in- 
vasion of Cortez. 

Soon after the advelit of the young 
monk into Mexico, the brethren of his 
order were very active in pushing out 
into the north of the country and plant- 
ing missions and, as may be supposed, 
Francisco was among the formost. 

The journal gives copious accounts 
of his journey, lasting several mohths. 
It gives speculations concerning the 
country pro and con, taking into con- 
sideration climate, fertility, etc. It 
speaks at length in regard to establish- 
ing missions on the banks of the Rio 
Gila and Colorado. It gives their 
sufferings in crossing a great sandy 
desert ; and their difficulty among the 
San Bernardino mountains. They 
finally settled in a little valley on the 


western base of these mountains ; and 
after bringing in the Indians began 
building a mission. 

At first the diary gives an account, 
chiefly, of the progress of building ; 
but afterwards of the missionary work 
among the Indians. The narrative 
complains of unsuccessfulness, in their 
labors ; and many pages are devoted to 
lementations worthy of Jeremiah. As 
we proceed, however, the accounts 
grows more healthy, and near the close 
of the volume a great conversion of the 
natives crowns their labors. 

Intersperced among these pages 
were notes upon the character and sec- 
ular progress of the Indians,— their 
change from a nomadic life to a fixed 
and agricultural one. It speaks of 
a large tract of land being cultivated 
by them. 

Finally comes the closing scene,— 
the conversion of the natives en masse . 
So numerous were the converts, that 
the priests had to resort to a method 
once or twice used before in the history 
of baptism. A sponge was filled with 
the holy water and whirled about their 
heads so that the drops might fall upon 
a large number at the same time. 

Fray Francisco dilated upon this 
event in enthusiastic and unstinted 
terms and compared it to the conver- 
sion of the Moors by the great Xime- 
nes. 

There was but one other event in 
the book, which was closed not from 
lack of subject matter but limit of pages. 
This event was the great joy of Fray 


5 * 


THE PROMISED LAND. 


Francisco at seeing his labors crowned 
with success and, not content with the 
monument of that success set up in 
the hearts of this converted people, 
sought a memorial in another way. He 
traveled, says the chronicle, with much 
trouble over the mountains and through 
the desert, procured a young agave 
plant, and set it out near the chapel 
as a pleasant remembrance of the 
event, that these people might, years 
after, when the plant should blosson, 
behold the fruits of their Christianity. 

Thus closed the account of Fray 
Francisco in the year 1775, and I was 
never able to gain anything further 
concerning him. 

From the description given by the 
monk, I recognized the large and soli- 
tary agave on the corner of my ranche 
as the memorial of the famous brethren. 
True it may have been another, or a 
second shoot of the original root, — 
for the plant dies after it blossoms, but 
a new shoot often starts from the old 
root. If it was the plant set out by 
the friar it must be very old and ready 
to blossom, if there was anything in the 
popular belief of its blossoming once 
in a hundred years. 

I inquired of the older Indians, who 
had always lived about the place if they 
knew anything concerning the plant ; 
but they did not except that it had 
been there from their infancy, and had 
never, to their knowledge, blossomed. 

I was convinced that this was the 
historic plant, and on account of its 
age and appearance, I felt that it must 


soon blossom. I was deeply interested 
in watching it on account of its history 
and the seeming gauge it formed in the 
progress of Christianity — for a century. 
But, the plant which I called my 
century-clock, was long in chiming the 
hour, and I had to wait several years. 

During the interval a change was 
going on in the history of the country. 
The mines had long since ceased to be 
the attraction to California and to set- 
tle was now the idea of the immigrant. 
Already all the best wild lands were 
taken up, and the settler was casting 
longing eyes on the cultivated fields of 
the Indians. 

At last a man in the neighborhood 
more energetic than the rest, hunted 
up the titles and finding that the In- 
dians had little or no claim .to the 
mission lands secured a title from the 
United States government. 

The man used some diplomatic 
action to induce the dwellers to va- 
cate their land, but to no effect ; and 
after a year or so a forced ejectment 
took place. It is no part of my story 
to describe that scene. That has al- 
ready been done by a better pen than 
mine. 

These actions were going forward in 
the year 1875. One day when near 
the agave I noticed a peculiar some- 
thing in the center. Surely it was going 
to blossom and 1 waited expectantly. 
My conjecture was right. In a few 
days a straght scape shot up from the 
center of the large leaves, — up twenty 
or thirty feet in length, with every 


AND OTHER TALES. 


53 


prospect of abundant flowerage. 

On the morning of the ejectment, I, 
like many another, from idle curiosity, 
went to see the unhappy Indians leave 
their homes. I was hindered by some- 
thing, I have forgoten what, so that the 
sorrowful procession had departed 
when I had come on the scene. 1 
went on toward the old mission build- 
ing to hear the gossip if I could not 
see the sight. As I neared the chapel 
I cast my eye up to the gigantic flower- 
stock of the agave. 

The stalk instead of presenting a 
state of growing infloresence appeared 
to be withered. The top of the gigantic 
flower-stalk hung down limply by its 
side. Even the large thick leaves pre- 
sented an unhealthy appearance. Truly 
my century-clock was about to die. 

I visited the plant next morning. 
The symptoms were only more decid- 


ed. Soon the plant had all the stiffen- 
ed rigidity of a corpse. 

I looked at the plant now beyond 
hope, and thought how different had 
been its end from that planned 
by Francisco, the monk. Truly “Man 
proposes and God disposes”. The 
death of the plant carried my mind 
back to the ejectment of the Indians. 
Truly a stultifying thought to Christian- 
ity, after so much labor, and so much 
good being accomplished in one cen- 
tury, that the next, so often boasted as 
superior in humanity and Christianity, 
should overthrow it all. 

I was not suffered to forget the 
wrong inflicted for a long time, as the 
dried stock of the agave stood up stiff 
and white for several years, — a monu- 
ment not of Fray Francisco but his 
dispoilers. 


THE EL WIN CLAIM. 


There was a ripple of excitement in 
the office of Elwin & Company in the 
seaport town of Portland one morning 
in the early part of March, 1891. 

Excitement was an unusual thing for 
this staid old firm, which had existed 
for more than a century. The found- 
er had made money in the early part 
of the century in the West Indian trade. 
His sons succeeded him, and now his 
grandsons had grown old in the busi- 
ness. This firm, like others, had found 
business uneven ; but their bank ac- 
count was sufficient to guard against 
surprises in general. Good fortune 
had caused contentment among the 
members, and this was their boast that 
during the hundred years the gilded 
sign of Elwin & Co. had swung in front 
of their office and warehouse no quar- 
rels had occurred between between 
them. 

It must not be understood that dur- 
ing their long career they had sustained 
no losses, for it was an item which had 
stood on their profit and loss account 
for ninety years that had produced the 
excitement. This item was for the 


ship Brotherly Love and cargo, cap- 
tured by a French cruiser in the year 
1800. 

All members of the Elwin family, 
with one exception, had served in some 
capacity about the office or warehouse, 
and that exception was the youngest 
son of the founder, John, captain of 
the Brotherly Love. He had a roving 
disposition, much to the disquietude of 
his father and mother, and to him the 
high stool was the height of tameness. 
Nothing but ‘following the sea’ was to 
his taste. His father was at length 
convinced that he would be good for 
nothing on land, and therefore shipped 
him on board of one of his vessels. 
After three voyages he was considered 
proficient to command a vessel, and 
accordingly one was built especially 
for him, named the Brotherly Love, on 
account of the happy disposition of the 
family. 

Away sailed captain John ; and his 
father, mother and brothers never saw 
him again. This was the time, it will 
be remembered, when the United States 
was at variance with France, and the 


AND OTHER TALES . 


Brotherly Love fell prey to a cruiser of 
that nation. It was months before 
Elwin & Co. learned the fate of the 
missing ship, and years before they 
heard from captain John. The news 
concerning the Brotherly Love was first 
obtained from a newspaper, that of the 
missing captain by a letter from him- 
self. The letter stated briefly that when 
released from imprisonment he had 
espoused the cause of Toussaint L’Ou- 
verture ; that he had become mixed up 
in the wars of that unhappy island ; had 
married a lady who did not like the 
United States and consequently he 
should never visit that country, although 
he still loved home, his parents and 
brothers. 

In accordance with the spirit of this 
letter, John’s share in the firm of Elwin 
& Co. was purchased by the other 
members. Letters were exchanged 
occasionally afterwards, but as time 
went on they were received less fre- 
quently and finally ceased altogether. 

Although no quarrel had taken place, 
this marriage had been a source of an- 
noyance to the Elwins. Why was the 
captain’s wife so prejudiced against the 
United States? They could think of 
nothing to make her so unless she 
might have negro blood in her veins, a 
thing more than common in Havti. 
Just the thought that this might be so 
caused them to shiver. Slavery was 
not common in the District of Maine 
at that early date, but negroes were 
decidedly unpopular and the aristo- 
cratic Elwins could not bear to have 


one in the family. They never dared 
to inquire into the matter for fear of 
the results of the investigation. Child- 
ren had been born to the captain and 
his wife, but whether or not the sickly 
climate and revolutionary people had 
spared them was unknown. As the 
years had rolled by, they had been for- 
gotten. 

The memory of the ship Brotherly 
l.ove had been kept alive by the ledger 
item of profit and loss. In 1831 the 
United States effected a settlement with 
France whereby an indemnity had been 
promised the losers of shipping in 
those turbulant times. Congress after 
Congress considered the question, and 
occasionally that body would vote to 
pay these just claims only to be vetoed 
by the president, till at last French 
spoliation claims became a laughing 
stock. The president, however, did 
not veto the bill of the 5 2nd Congress, 
and this was the cause of the excite- 
ment on that March morning, 1 89 iy in 
the Elwin office. 

Their claim had been proved and 
was consequently paid ; but a part of 
this money evidently belonged to the 
heirs of captain John, as no provision 
in the former settlement had been made 
for the captured vessel, Brotherly Love. 

The firm decided to a man that the 
heirs, if there were any, must be found. 
'This aroused speculation again as to 
the race of the San Domingo cousins. 
African slavery had been abolished in 
the United States since that question 
had first agitated the Elwin family, and 


THE PROMISED LAND , 


5 <> 


the North was the supposed friend of 
the enfranchised negro. As a citizen 
he was unobjectionable to the El wins, 
but as a cousin, as ‘hard to swallow’ as 
ever. 

Ernest Elwin, youngest clerk, was 
selected for this mission of hunting up 
the missing relatives, because he was 
more romantic than the others, had al- 
ways taken the part of his black cous- 
ins — as * they had always been called 
in the family — and pretended to have 
no objection to them on account of 
imagined color. Another reason, per- 
haps, might be assigned for his appoint- 
ment. Although a good bookkeeper, 
he was a poor business man and. would 
not be so much missed 8 . He liked to 
travel, also. So, taking what records 
could be found concerning his great- 
uncle, he was soom on his way. 

The trip was thoroughly enjoyed by 
Ernest. He had never been at sea 
before, and his interest never abated 
from the time he left New York until 
the headlands of Hayti and the city of 
San Domingo were seen. The land 
was historic, and he gave full rein to 
his imagination. It was the site of the 
first authentic European settlement in 
the new world, and this city was said 
to contain the bones of the great dis- 
coverer. These things interested him, 
but. he devoted but a small part, of his 
time to them and eagerly sought for 
his relatives. The surroundings were 
: somewhat, oppressive. He missed the 
civilization of United States. As he 
beheld the ignorance and squalor of 


the people, he could not but wonder 
if his cousins were like them. The 
evidence certainly pointed that way. 
The population was nearly all colored, 
and the sight of them caused even this 
unprejudiced person to sincerely hope 
that if he found his relatives they might 
be an exception. 

Looking up missing heirs was by no 
means an easy task, for there was prac- 
tically no clue to their whereabouts or 
even existence. In so unsettled a 
country there were no records to assist 
and Ernest’s meagre understanding of 
Spanish was also a great hindrance. 
After a few weeks he fell in with an old 
soldier whose father had served with 
Toussaint and Christophe, when by 
mere accident, almost, in talking of 
these old wars he mentioned the name 
of John Elwin. Upon inquiry he in- 
formed Ernest that his uncle had serv- 
ed under these generals, and had in 
fact become a general himself, and, 
farther, had held office under Chris- 
tophe. Further questions revealed 
that he had married and had lived at 
the seat of Christophe’s government at 
Cape Haytien. This was all the old 
soldier knew, and this determined Er- 
nest on a trip across the island. 

As Ernest journeyed, he made many 
inquiries concerning the past history of 
the country. Many testified to the 
humanity and statesmanship of Tous- 
saint— the black Napoleon, they called 
him — and the bravery and cruelty of 
Christophe. Of his uncle he could 
learn nothing. 


AND OTHER TALES. 


57 


On arriving at Cape Haytien he 
found several Americans, but they could 
not help him in his search. The hotels 
not being to his taste, he, found, in 
looking around, a residence with a white 
woman who took European and Amer- 
ican visitors to board. She was of 
French extraction, named Marcotte, a 
widow, with one daughter named 
Marie. 

The houses in Cape Haytien, taken 
as a whole, were not models of neat- 
ness, but Madame Marcotte’s was an 
exception. Although small and poorly 
made, it was surrounded by a well kept 
garden. The furnishing, while meagre, 
was tastefully arranged, and scattered 
about the house were now and then 
pieces of furniture that once had been 
grand. There were a few books and 
pictures. The mother and daughter 
spoke three languages — French fluent- 
ly, Spanish and English poorly. Al- 
though white, they were swarthy, which 
Ernest did not know whether to at- 
tribute to the effect of climate or to 
the influence of negro blood. 

Madame Marcotte was well informed 
in the history of her country. She was 
quite patriotic, and, while admitting 
that slavery in America was first es- 
tablished on this island, would hasten 
to say that it was also first abolished 
there. She upheld the negro race and 
repudiated their represented inferiority, 
citing as examples the careers of Tous- 
saint, Dessalines, Christophe and Boy- 
er. The city was full of historic as- 
sociations, and in speaking of these 


Ernest inquired if she had ever heard 
of an officer of Christophe’s, General 
Elwin by name ? She had heard of 
him. Ernest told her he was hunting 
for the heirs of this man, but could 
gain no further information from her. 

The residents were mostly ignorant 
of what had taken place in the past, 
and little could be learned from them. 
Ernest was well nigh discouraged of 
successfully terminating his mission 
and would have left the place and 
probably the island, had he not formed 
an attachment for Madame Marcotte’s 
daughter, Marie, rendering it quite pos 
sible that another member of the El- 
win firm was destined to live on the 
island of Hayti. For this reason he 
lingered after all hope of finding those 
persons whom he had been entrusted 
to find had vanished. 

One day, when Ernest and Marie 
were strolling about the place, he pro- 
posed, as he had many times before, 
that they visit the ruined palace of San 
Succi. 

“I cannot do so,” said Marie with a 
shudder. 

“Why?” asked Ernest, who remem- 
bered she had never been ready to go 
with him, but had never openly refused 
before. 

Marie paused ; then said, “It is a 
story connected with my grandfather.” 

Ernest’s curiosity was excited, but 
he would not sadden her by a recital. 

Marie remained silent a while ; then 
said, “Perhaps you had better hear it. 
My grandfather, who had been an 


THE PROMISED LAND. 


58 


officer under Christophe, incured his 
displeasure when he became Henri I, 
king of Hayti, and was confined in a 
basement of the palace, with others 
who had committed the same offence, 
real or imaginary, and after being con- 
fined many years was cruelly killed.” 

“No wonder he was called the ‘cruel 
king of the north’ or that you do not 
want to visit the palace,” said Ernest. 

“I said,” continued Marie, “that he 
was killed ; but we do not know that 
to be a fact. He was never seen 
again, and we have reason to believe 
that his bones still lie in one of the 
dungeons.” 

At length the time arrived when Er- 
nest felt he must return to the United 
States, and he resolved to ask the hand 
of Marie in marriage. At the request 
Madame Marcotte seemed troubled. 
She wanted time to consider. She 
pleaded shortness of acquaintance and 
finally asked for two months’ time be- 
fore answering. 

Ernest could not refuse so reason- 
able a request. At the end of that 
time he asked what decision she had 
arrived at. She informed him that so 
far as he was concerned she was fully 
satisfied of his worth and his affection 
for her daughter ; but there was an 
obstacle in the way, and although she 
did not wish to trouble him with it, she 
felt as though Ernest should know be- 
fore the subject was pursued farther. 

“My mother had African blood in 
her veins,” she said, “and was born a 
slave in New Orleans. Her master, a 


French gentleman by the name of La 
Place, loved her and wishing to free 
her and also place her where there 
could be no prejudice on account of 
her negro blood, came to Hayti where 
slavery had recently been abolished. 
He purchased an estate, but when the 
revolution came on was mistrusted on 
account of his nationality. In the 
mean time, Toussaint had been treach- 
erously seized by Napoleon, carried to 
France, cast into prison, unjustly as 
everybody knows, and died miserably. 
Phis caused a feeling of uncalled for 
yet natural hatred against the La Places, 
and many acts of violence were com- 
mitted upon them. 

“About the time of the breaking out 
of hostilities, a young American who 
had been taken prisoner by the French 
appeared and, being impetuous, es- 
poused the cause of the ‘black republic’. 
He attracted the attention of Tous- 
saint, and became his trusted friend 
and the able lieutenant of Christophe. 
In the early part of the war, this man 
was thrown in the way of the La Place 
family and an intimacy grew up be- 
tween him and my mother. Soon he 
marched away to the north, and they 
saw nothing of one another for several 
years. In the mean time, insults were 
thrust upon the family so frequently 
that they determined to leave the island. 
They did not succeed in effecting their 
escape, but were captured by a divis- 
ion of Christophe’s army. At the same 
time it was discovered that a garrison 
had been betrayed to the French by a 


AND OTHER TALES . 


59 


secret enemy. This circumstance 
pointed to the La Place family, and 
the fiery Christophe ordered them to 
be executed at once. The American 
officer was present and interceded in 
their behalf. He succeeded in saving 
only my mother, and that on the prom- 
ise of marrying her, a promise he re- 
deemed at once ; but from that mo- 
ment he was a suspected man. When 
Christophe became king of Hayti — 
almost a second Nero in cruelty — one 
day he seized my father on suspicion of 
plotting against the government and 
thrust him into a dungeon in the base- 
ment of his palace, from which he nev- 
er emerged.” 

Madame Marcotte paused, and Er- 
nest asked what that had to do with 
the question of his marriage? 

“My mother was superstitious and 
felt that this was a judgement brought 
upon her for marrying a member of 
the Caucasian race — although she dear- 
ly loved her husband — and she made 
me promise to marry no one but of my 
own caste.” 

“Does that promise refer to your 
descendants?” 

“That is a question which 1 cannot 
satisfactorily answer. I do not believe 
in the curse which wore my poor moth- 
er out, for she and father lived happily 
together ; but I want you to consider, 
when you decide to marry Marie, that 
this hateful question of caste is bound 
to come in. If you take her to your 
own country, there is the prejudice — 


even in the North, which they call the 
cradle of abolition — which will make 
both of you unhappy. If you remain 
here, the condition of my unhappy 
country will make you the same. I do 
not wish to settle this question. You 
and Marie must do that for yourselves, 
and to your decision I shall have no 
objection. If it be a sin, it will bring 
its own punishment.” 

Ernest thanked Madame Marcotte 
for her expression of confidence in 
him, told her he had considered well 
the question she had propounded be- 
fore she had spoken ; that her decision 
as to a place of residence should be 
respected. 

Madame Marcotte bowed in ac- 
knowledgment. told him it was natural 
she should have confidence in him, for 
she had known — what he had not known 
ever since he had been there — that her 
father and his grandfather had been 
brothers ; that her father was none 
other than the unhappy General Elwin. 

Elwin & Co. soon received news that 
Ernest’s mission had been successful ; 
also a second surprise — that Ernest had 
inherited his uncle’s wandering dispo- 
sition and would settle in Hayti. The 
excitement subsided enough to allow 
them to send at once an elegant wed- 
ding present and the full amount of the 
claim of the Brotherly Love. What- 
ever they might have thought of the 
alliance, they expressed no disappro- 
bation. 












; / - 







: ‘i<- 5 




. 


. 















URIAH UPTON. 


I was dropped at a little railroad 
station, not long ago, in the state of 
Maine, which was on my way to an in- 
terior village several miles distant. This 
village was also small, with conveyance 
thereto by mail wagon, — it could 
scarcely be designated coach, — and 
this made trips only every other day, 
being one of the noted star routes. It 
was my ill-fortune to arrive on the 
wrong day as regards the trips of the 
mail wagon, necessitating my “putting 
up,” as it was called, in this locality, 
among the farmers, for there was no 
hotel, or walking to my destination. 
As there was nothing very attractive 
about the locality of the station, I chose 
the latter, and, taking my “grip” in my 
hand, was soon on my way. 

I had not walked very far when I 
was overtaken by a man, a little past 
the middle age of life, seated in a vehi- 
cle which was a combination of riding 
and freight wagon. He looked at me 
curiously, and ventured the remark that 
it was “a fine day,” to which I assented. 

After walking his team beside me for 
a short distance, he inquired if I was not 


a stranger in the locality. To this I 
also assented. 

After another short silence, he said : 

“S’pose ye come on the cars?” 

“I did.” 

“ ’Spected to find the hack at the 
depot, didn,t ye?” 

I did not know what he meant by 
“hack” but ventured to apply the name 
to the mail-wagon, and therefore an- 
swered his question in the affirmative. 

“Air ye us’ ter walkin’ ? he added. 

I informed him I was not. 

“I thought ye looked a little tucker- 
ed. Now, I alius carry folks for one 
half what the hack does, and if ye want 
ter ride on them terms ye can climb 
up.” 

I accepted his proposition, and did 
“climb up.” 

After my “grip” was disposed of, 
and I was as comfortably seated as the 
nature of the wagon would permit, my 
companion, as he started his horse, be- 
gan a conversation. Perhaps it could 
scarcely be called a conversation, for 
he did most of the talking. He proved 
to be a great talker, and entertained 


62 


THE PROMISED LAND , 


me with bits of the general history of 
the region, bits of personal history, 
interspersed with portions of quaint 
philosophy and unsolicited advice. On 
the whole, he was quite agreeable, and 
made my ride in the jolting cart en- 
durable. 

“Ye see, I alius make it a p’int o’ 
cornin’ ter the depot on the days when 
the hack don’t run ; ’cause sometimes 
folks comes as wants ter git to Horeb. 
Ye see, folks was pius when this ere 
country was settled, and give Bible 
names ter places and ter their children. 
Why, my great-grandfather had a hul 
chapter for his name, but folks had 
kinder backslid when my day come, so 
they only give me a name out of the 
old test’ment.” 

This half-serious, half-flippant tone 
caused me to suspect that degenera- 
tion had not ceased with his father’s 
time, and so remarked that the present 
generation did not even trouble them- 
selves to give Bible names to their 
children. 

“Folks has backslid all the time. 
They don’t go ter church as they us’ 
ter. I don’t go ter church now. Haint 
ben ter church for ten year. Not 
’cause I don’t b’lieve in religion, for I 
was born a Meth’dist, ben a Meth’dist 
all my life, am a Meth’dist now, and 
’spect ter die a Meth’dist, but ye see 
the church costs so much. When I 
was a boy, the min’ster worked same’s 
anybody. Up ter Horeb the min’ster’s 
a gentleman ; they give him eight hund 
ud dollars a year. A min’ster us’ ter 


be contented with a few bushels o’ 
taters ; now he wants all ye’ve got, and 
wants ye ter convert um inter cash for 
him, at that. Then the church has ter 
be painted and carpeted every other 
year, and now they’ve had ter build a 
dinin’-room and parlor, and buy dishes 
and sich like. Ye see, it’s cheaper tor 
poor folks ter do their own prayin’. 
Then folks have ter dress who go ter 
church. Me an’ Nancy — that’s my 
wife — try ter be clean an’ ’spectible, 
but we can’t buy silk dresses and give 
a dollar for this and a dollar for that ; 
so they haint partic’lar whether we go 
ter church or not.” 

I remarked that the country we were 
riding through looked like a good farm- 
ing section. 

“Yes. I own a little farm up in 
Horeb. Can git a livin’ ofFen it — not 
much besides. Me an’ Nancy had ter 
go without much o’ anything ter get it 
together, but now all we’ve got ter do 
is ter git a livin’.” 

I was somewhat interested in Horeb, 
so I thought I would inquire about the 
people, and said : 

“I suppose you have good neigh- 
bors.” 

“Wal, yes. They are tol’able good. 
Ye see we don’t b’long to the upper 
crust, and the lower crust haint very 
numerous, so we let ’um ’lone. We can’t 
’ford ter git up parties and suppers and 
sich like, so we let ,um ’lone. Me an’ 
Nancy are jist plain, every day folks. 
Nancy, she’s had one husband an’ 
buried him, an’ I’ve had ’nother wife, 


AND OTHER TALES. 


<>3 


she sleeps in the cem’tery we’re going 
by. When she was ’live I felt difrent ; 
but then I was young and foolish — all 
of us is young and foolish once. Ye 
see, Nancy, she wanted a hum, and I 
wanted a wife, so we ’greed ter live to- 
gether and got married. We don’t 
care nothin’ ’bout ’ciety. We have ter 
work daytimes, and in the evenin' we 
jist sit down on the door rock and rest 
a few minits, and then go ter bed. 
We’re poor, but we’ve got ’nough ter 
carry us through with our work, and 
that’s all we wanted.” 

By this time we had reached our 
destination, a very pretty little village, 
and Mr. Upton set me down before a 
large, old-fashioned building, which 
was called by the villagers “The Hotel” 
although its guests were not numerous. 
It was an agricultural community, and 
one of the oldest settled portions of 
the state. The farms had mostly de- 
scended from father to son, and their 
occupants were nearly all well-to-do, 
and attempted to carry on what they 
called “society,” boasting ot “first 
families” and “old families.” 

After refreshing myself with a bath 
and eating a supper, I sat down upon 
the piazza to enjoy the prospect. I 
was soon joined by my host, who en- 
tertained me with neighborhood gossip 
of the day, with personal descriptions 
and reminiscences of the passers-by. 
In the course of our talk, my host ex- 
pressed his regret both that I had ar- 
rived on a day when there was no hack 
and that they were not able to support 


a daily mail-coach. This led round to 
our discussing Mr. Upton, who had 
supplied the place of mail-carrier to 
me, and I made some inquires about 
him, which elicited the following : 

“Oh, he’s good enough ! Don’t 
’mount to nothin’, though. Thinks he 
does. Thinks eight hundred dollars’ 
worth of land with a horse and cow is 
considerable. He used to belong to 
the church, but backslid rather’n give a 
dollar once in a while. Don’t believe 
in any pleasure. Can’t bear to let the 
boys and girls have any. Does all he 
can to stop ’um. ‘Old stop ’um’ is 
what they call him.” 

“What does he do to stop them ?” I 
inquired. 

“Oh, nothin’ but talk? Can’t do 
nothin’ else !” 

“Isn’t he a respectable man ?” 

“Oh, i respectable ’nough ; but he 
don’t ’mount to nothin’.” 

“Does he pay his bills?” 

“Oh, yes ; he pays his bills.” 

“Does he lie or cheat?” 

“Oh, no ; his word’s good !” 

“Then all the trouble is that he is 
not rich nor educated, and consequent- 
ly amounts to nothing ?“ 

This way of putting it did not, evi- 
dently, please my host, but he assented 
to it, and shortly after left me. 

Having finished the business which 
had called me to this place, I departed, 
expecting never to return. Three 
years had elapsed and I had nearly 
forgotten my experience at Horab, 
when I was unexpectedly called upon 


t>4 


THE PROMISED LAND . 


to return to that quiet village. This 
time I was fortunate enough to find the 
mail-carrier waiting at the little depot. 
He had simply a double-seated, cover- 
ed carriage. I took my seat with the 
driver, as the mail bags and one or 
two express and freight packages were 
thrown upon the back seat and into 
the space between the two. The driv- 
er was inclined to be talkative, and, 
remembering my former experience, I 
asked about Mr. Upton. 

“He’s dead. Died last week. Ben 
sick nigh on ter two year. Guess I 
was ’bout all the friend he had. He 
was independent, and folks didn’t like 
him, ye know. He wan’t a bad man. 
He knew a thing or two, and lived up 
to ’um. The rest of us know the same 
things, and don’t live up to ’um. That’s 
the dif’rence. He said all folks want- 
ed of him was his money, and he cal’- 
lated ter have that himself. What he 
said’s truth ; and I should have more 
money and more traps if I had his 
backbone. But I am kinder soft-heart- 
ed, ye know, when them women come 
’round and say kinder respectful like, 
— ‘Mr. Tracy, won’t ye giv us a dollar 
ter buy a new carpet for the church, 
or ter light the village streets, or some- 
thing ?’ Then I give it, though I know 
the minit I do I am plain ‘Caleb’ agin. 
Then my wife, she’d say, ‘Caleb, we 
sha’nt be nobody if we don’t give,’ and 
that would hurt her feelin’s dreadful, 
ye know. P’r’aps, too, we shall git 
’long jist as well. Uriah didn’t git 
’long no better by bein’ close-fisted.” 


I inquired about Mr. Upton’s last 
days. 

“Ye see, Uriah worked hard all his 
life. He wan’t a very strong man, or 
a very weak man, but when he broke 
he went all ter pieces. Was sick ’bout 
two year with some kind of a disease 
with a long name — I don’t know what. 
Suffered lots. Had ter have the doc- 
tor most every day. We don’t have 
no doctor at Horeb, and he had ter 
come from Titusville, five mile off, and 
it cost a heap. Charged two dollars a 
visit. Cost more’n four hundred dol- 
lars for his sickness. Uriah felt bad 
about it. He us’ ter say, ‘Caleb, I 
want ter die. ’Taint no use for me to 
live any longer. It’s eatin’ up all Nan- 
cy’s money. Nancy’ll have nothing to 
live on. I can’t take no comfort when 
I think o’ that. She’s been faithful to 
me and deserves her home, and I alius 
meant she should have it, but it seems 
the Lord meant otherwise. She don’t 
complain. She took me for better or 
worse, but I know she can’t feel like 
her that’s down in the cem’tery, though 
God knows I’m glad she’s there ’stead o’ 
here, and I hope I’ll soon be there too. 
This last marriage more like bus’ness, 
ye know. I haint had no pleasure 
gettin’ m> prop’ty. We’ve gone with- 
out everything ’cause we thought ’twas 
our duty. P’r’aps ’twas wrong. Looks 
so ’twas. But if the doctor didn’t cost 
nothin’ we’d be all right. Nancy’d 
still have her prop’ty, and I like ter 
live a while longer. As I’ve laid here, 
o’ no use ter nobody, I thinked up as 


AND OTHER TALES. 


how they might pay a doctor as they 
do a minister, so as when folks was 
sick they wouldn’t have ter think o’ 
the money. I haint ben ter church 
‘cause I couldn’t pay the money for 
nothin’ ; and there’s sense, sir, in what 
he said.” 

The arrival at the hotel cut short any 
further narrative of poor Uriah Upton, 


t>5 

and, leaving Horeb in a few days, I 
have never heard anything further of 
him or his wife, Nancy ; but, as I travel 
in life, I have heard his wail repeated 
trom hundreds of homes, and am ready 
to say that if any profession more than 
another should be provided at the pub- 
lic expense it is that of the physician. 


Cf 


Q ' i 


A BLIGHT IN THE LAND OF THE LOTUS . 


One morning on the steamer Hawaii 
as she cleared the harbor of Honolulu 
were two persons, a man and a woman, 
who attracted my attention. There 
was that noticeable in their appearance 
indicative of something remarkable in 
their history. The clear complexion 
of the man pronounced him to be of 
the Caucasian race, and that indefin- 
able something which marks one varie- 
ty of mankind from another, declared 
him to be of American birth, while the 
brown complexion of the lady beside 
him showed her to be a native Hawa- 
iian. They looked wistfully towards the 
receding shore, and a slight quivering 
of the lip with a general expression of 
sadness suggested they were leaving 
some pleasant memories — perhaps a 
home — for a long time. The steamer 
plied only in local waters so it could 
not be that they were leaving these 
shores forever. The two were evi- 
dently man and wife, and their sol- 
itary position on the deck would seem 
to indicate them to be friendless. Their 
appearance, someway, kept my mind 
dwelling continually upon them as I 


mingled with other passengers. Hav- 
ing found a friend, we sat down under 
the awning to enjoy the cool sea breeze 
and I called his attention to them en- 
quiring if he knew them. 

As we looked at them I thought I 
observed a tear drop from the lady’s 
eye. The gentleman was holding her 
hand and talking very earnestly. 

“Yes,” he said, “that is Rev. James 
Danville. Poor man, he has had a sad 
experience !” 

If curiosity had been excited by their 
appearance ; it was doubly so by the 
words of my friend, and I inquired it 
he was acquainted with them and what 
was their history. 

“Not personally,” he said, “but no 
one who has lived in the neighborhood 
of his parish in Honolulu but what has 
heard something of their romantic and 
impressive story.” 

Without further urging, my friend 
related the story which is substantially 
as follows : 

“I have passed my life in a large 
business house, and among the employ- 
ees was for some time a young Ameri- 


AND OTHER TALES. 


67 


can, a cousin of Mr. Danville’s, who 
came to Hawaii with him, and from 
him I have learned his history from 
boyhood.” 

“He was always studious, capturing 
high honors at academy and college, 
and choosing as his profession the min- 
istry. His friends expected great things 
from him. He could have had a city 
parish in his own country, but his de- 
sires turned towards the missionary 
fields. It was hard for him to decide 
where to locate. There was India with 
its old superstitions to overcome, Af- 
rica, still largely an undiscovered coun- 
try, and the isles of the Southern seas 
rising fresh from the sparkling ocean. 
He chose the latter and proceeded to 
the Sandwich Islands as a base and 
preparation for his labors, and not wish- 
ing to be entirely alone, he persuaded 
this cousin of his to come with him, 
procuring through resident missionaries 
a situation in this business house for 
him. 

“Mr. Danville was highly pleased 
with Hawaii. Everything was new and 
strange and as he was a close student 
of nature, it was intensely interesting 
to him. He commenced some inves- 
tigations, the results of which he em- 
bodied in articles to the home press. 
The people he liked, too. Their 
dreamy nature seemed particularly re- 
ceptive for the Gospel, and its rich 
eastern imagery sank into their hearts 
and found a home there. ‘It is a favor- 
ed locality,’ he told his cousin, ‘for 
church building. The people have 


time to ponder on Gospel truths. No 
weary round of labor from morn till 
night, day after day, as in New Eng- 
land, till the people tired with the 
struggle forget there is a God to wor- 
ship, and are too absorbed to ponder 
on his words. Truly this is a garden 
of Eden where everything comes with- 
out exertion.’ 

“Not only were the natives pleasing 
to them, bu t he soon had a large church 
built up almost entirely of the native 
element. It had been Mr. Danville’s 
intention, after having done a score or 
more years of missionary labor to re- 
turn to his native land to spend the 
remainder of his days, but his love so 
went out toward this new land, that he 
determined to adopt it as his country 
and future home. 

“In process of time among his friend- 
ships there sprang up one which was 
the budding of something better and 
holier. In Hawaii there is no preju- 
dice against the inter- marriage of races, 
and in consequenc the country is fast 
becoming cosmopolitan. There seem- 
ed nothing to step in between the love 
of Mr. Danville and Miss Kara. It was 
pure, mutual and spontaneous. From 
friendship it had ripened into love, 
and that love was plighted for the holy 
bonds of matrimony. For a long time 
all went happily, but finally there seem- 
ed to come a change in Miss Kara, not 
that she was less affectionate, but her 
eyes were continually red from weep- 
ing. To the inquiries of her friends, 
and the importunities of her lover she 


68 


THE PROMISED LAND, 


would make no reply. What the mat- 
ter was they could not guess. She was 
censured as heartless and Mr. Dan- 
ville was pitied. Perhaps it made him 
more popular and his preaching more 
effective, but his heart was sore. What 
should he do? 

“At last the trouble came out. A 
little spot had appeared upon the per- 
son of Miss Kara, something insignifi- 
cant, yet what apprehension does it 
bring to the heart of the native Hawa- 
iian. With intense anxiety she watch- 
ed it. Would it spread, or would it 
disappear? For weeks it seemed to 
remain stationary, then, — oh, what 
anguish — it began to increase in size. 
The ‘blight in the land of the lotus’ was 
upon her. Forevermore, wherever she 
should go, the cry, now centuries old. 
would proceed her. — unclean ! un 
clean ! Leprosy ! Mysterious and in- 
curable as in the days of Moses, ac- 
countable unto no human laws, but 
persistently heathen, it has ever been 
a law unto itself, — the pest of Hawaii, 
had fastened itself upon her. The 
anguish this brought may be imagined, 
for now disease not only unfited her to 
be the wife of her lover but she would 
also be shunned by all mankind. No 
pain of the body accompanied this 
early appearance but that of her mind 
can only be compared to the terrible 
torture which accompanies the end of 
this disease in the far away and lone- 
some colony of lepers. 

“The shock was no less hard upon 
Mr. Danville. It meant the giving up 


of his sweetheart, for there is a law in 
Hawaii against the marriage of lepers, 
and if there was not, could he be happy 
with her when her fair face was covered 
with scales, her musical voice harsh, 
and her mind benumbed by this dread 
disease. It brought heart searching. 
Was he a true man of God, ready to 
give up all to Him ? Did he not like 
a pleasant life and the things of this 
world ? Was it not his duty to follow 
this poor woman and alleviate her suf- 
ferings as much as he could ? It would 
be death to him, but ought not his 
love for her impel him on — for 
‘greater love hath no man than he who 
layeth his life down for his friend.’ 
Could he repeat the prayer of his Lord, 
or any longer stand in the house of the 
Lord as His representative? The bat- 
tle was long and bitter, restless and 
sleepless, but at last, like the prodigal 
son he cried, — Make me as one of thy 
hired servants, for I am no more 
worthy to be called they son.’ ” 

“After this came rest and sleep. 
There was a calm and sweetness 
in his soul such as he had never 
known before. The leper set- 
tlement had lost its dread and love had 
made duty a pleasure. Taking his hat 
he went to visit Miss Kara, and taking 
her hand, said simply, — ‘Come, whom 
God hath joined together let no man 
burst asunder.” 

The steamer, during the progress of 
this story, had pursued her way and 
continued through the waves during 
the silence which ensued at its close. 




AND OTHER TALES. 


b 9 


In due time it approached a rocky 
island, the landing of which was difficult. 
It was the famous island of Molokai 
containing the leper settlement of the 
Hawaiian kingdom. On nearer ap- 
proach were to be seen those dis- 
eased exiles in all stages — some in ap- 
parent health and those from whom all 
comeliness had departed. The lady 
shuddered and hid her face on her 
husband’s shoulder, but he with firm 
step and on whose face was even a 


smile, left the steamer and went up 
through the rocky gateway, over which 
with propriety might appear that 
inscription over the mouth of Dante’s 
Inferno, — “Leave all hope behind ye 
who enter here.” 

The steamer pursued its way with- 
out interruption, but the powerful les- 
son at the landing of Molokai cast a 
spell of thoughtfulness, sympathy and 
Christian feeling over crew and passen- 
gers for the rest of the voyage. 


THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 

> o ii ; ■' n<> ■ •*' \-it 


One morning more than three and a 
half centuries ago, Alta, an Indian 
maiden, looking from among the blos- 
som-covered foliage over the great wa- 
ter to see the Sun God arise, spied 
three enormous birds, with white wings 
touching the sky, hovering over the 
waves. She watched them first in sur- 
prise, then in awe and anxiety. Just 
behind them the sun was rising slowly. 
Surely they were his attending spirits, 
for their like had never before been 
seen on earth. What did their pre- 
sence portray ? Was it danger? Trem- 
blingly she watched awhile then hurried 
away to old Tomo, the chief, and flung 
herself on her knees before him. 

“Oh, Tomo, father, rise, for the great 
spirit is at our door with his attendants ! 
What awful event is at hand ?” 

The stoical chief was aroused, as 
well as the villagers in general, and to- 
gether they rushed to the shore. They 
found the words of the maiden true, 
and awe and consternation filled their 
hearts. Neither work nor rest was 
there for man or woman that day ; 
nothing but watching and supplication. 


The strange birds still hovered over the 
sea, while the sun, slowly rising, decked 
for an hour their black bodies with 
gems, gilded their wings with a sheath- 
ing of gold, then from above smiled 
lovingly down. Up to the zenith went 
the sun, then down behind the dark 
pine forests. As it descended, first 
one black finger of shade and then an- 
other shot out toward the'floating birds. 
The assembly trembled. The tom- 
toms were brought out and vigorously 
beaten. As the darkness of night set- 
tled down huge fires^were lighted. Oh, 
for salvation from the powers of dark- 
ness ! 

Another sun arose over the fatigued 
natives. The great birds were still 
there, but they had receded a little. A 
grim smile of satisfaction passed over 
the dusky faces. By their vigilance 
they had at least held their own. As 
the day progressed the objects of their 
watch drew slowly nearer and at last 
came boldly toward the shore. The 
Indians were frantic. As they ap- 
proached their aspect changed. They 
were now gigantic canoes filled with 


AND OTHER DALES. 


7 / 


men — men who were white, dressed in 
shining armor. Surely these could mot 
be the spirits of darkness, but the 
children of God. 

The strangers landed and proceeded 
to make a camp on the shore. One 
pavilion, whose folds were richly trim- 
med, evidently contained the com- 
mander of the expedition. A group of 
officers surrounded this personage. He 
was a man in middle life, and several 
of his attendants were about his own 
age. Among them was one who wore 
the habiliments of a priest. Seated at 
a table was a young officer engaged in 
writing. 

“A glorious country,” the command- 
er was saying. 

“Yes, Ponce:; it leads all the lands 
of the Moots, either in old Spain or 
in Africa,” said one of his mates. 

“Or of Cortez or Pizarro.” added 
another. 

“Look at that bank of flowers,” said 
a third, pointing to the edge of the 
woods. 

“Yes,” assented the priest, “every- 
thing, is springing into life. It is the. 
land of promise.” 

“Alphonzo,” said Ponce, place the 
date of ; the discovery upon the records, 
and furthermore that the name is 
‘Florida,’ in accordance thereto.” 

“Silver and gold must be hidden in 
abundance in so bountiful a land,” re- 
turned an officer. 

“And why not the fountain of youth?” 
said the commander. “I have lived 
among the heathenish Arabs till, God 


forgive me, I am almost heathen my- 
self. They are always hunting for that 
fountain, and think it is hidden in the 
sands of their accursed country, Now 
— don’t shake your head, Father Fran- 
cisco — I believe it is here. Faith, I 
am growing old. Wine no longer has 
any effect on me. My back stoops, 
my head is gray. I was once like Al- 
phonzo. Lad, think of it ! What 
would you not give for eternal youth ? 
Old age is bitter. I would turn back 
the wheels of time. Yes, this is a rich 
country, but if we find the wondrous 
fountain you may have the gold. I 
will be content with that.” 

“How shall we proceed ?” asked one 
of the staff. 

“Father Francisco must catechise the 
natives. They are near, for saw we 
not their fires and heard we not their 
accursed drumming? Go, priest, for 
1 am impatient. Let Alphonso help 
you.” 

The natives proved diffident, but 
also curious, and after a while commu- 
nication with them was established by 
means of signs. They were ready to 
receive the Spaniards as a superior 
people, and Father Francisco soon be- 
gan to enlighten them in regard to re- 
ligion. In the course of a few weeks 
he obtained a sufficient amount of 
knowledge to make inquiries about the 
country and its production. The cloth- 
ing of the natives was tastefully trim- 
med with feathers, and occasionally 
with an ornament of gold or crystal. 
These they said were obtained in the 


72 


THE PROMISED LAND. 


interior. But the priest said nothing 
concerning the subject so dear to the 
heart of the commander. Was not 
religion the real fountain of youth? 

Young Alphonzo was a hero worship- 
er. To him Ponce de Leon was the 
greatest warrior that had ever lived — 
a model of what he hoped to be some 
day. If De Leon said there was a 
fountain of youth, why, there must be 
one, Father Francisco to the contrary 
notwithstanding, and he entered upon 
the work with zeal. He cared not 
what means he used to attain a desired 
result, for he was bold and unscrupu- 
lous. Therefore when Alta, the In- 
dian maiden, showed her love for him, 
he smiled upon her. And many a sigh 
she gave that the fair stranger who was 
so kind to her people was of a celestial 
race, and therefore could not be united 
with the base daughters of men. 

Alphonzo’s stories of ocean and the 
great countries beyond, so new to Alta, 
and embellished with fictions that would 
have surprised his countrymen, were 
wonderful. Soon he importuned her 
to tell him something of her country. 

“Surely a son of the Sun God must 
know about my poor land, needing not 
to ask?” And the maiden looked 
doubtingly at the Spaniard. 

“The voice of the Indian maiden is 
sweet, and her country has been visi- 
ble to me only in vision. In fancy I 
have seen your cities and your wonder- 
ful fountain of youth, the like of which 
is to be found in no other place on 
earth.” 


“If the attendant of the sun is pleased 
with the speech of the daughter of man, 
she will tell him of her country.” And 
Alphonzo listened to a tale of distant 
cities, of war and of peace. 

“But the fountain of youth?” he im- 
patiently asked. 

“Surely the God man knows more 
about that than Alta. Not every man 
sees the fountain — only the true and 
the just.” 

So there was a fountain, and Alphon- 
zo so reported at head quarters, with 
the result that De Leon gave orders for 
immediate departures into the interior 
with Indians for guides. 

The march was slow and laborious. 
The forest, a tangled mass of vines and 
shrubs, had to be cut to permit the 
passage of the Spaniards. Sluggish 
rivers and pools were numerous, in- 
habited by reptiles that devoured the 
unfortunate in crossing. Poisonous 
snakes and insects bit them, and one 
by one they lay down just short of im- 
mortality. Maize and other Indian 
provisions were plenty and freely given 
along the route ; but at last malarial 
fever made a forced encampment. 

The Indians held a council. Could 
these be the children of the Sun God ? 
If they were, why were they thus af- 
flicted? Were they only men? Sure- 
ly the traditions of their fathers had 
said there was a race of white men. 
Only Alta remained unshaken; and 
yet there was a doubt in her mind also. 
Why did Alphonzo ask questions about 
that which he ought to know? 


AND OTHER TALES. 


73 


The fever continued, and the entire 
detachment were in danger of being 
cut off. The Indians determined to 
move. De Leon, summoning all that 
were able to travel, accompanied the 
natives. When they encamped how- 
ever, no provisions were furnished, and 
the Spaniards fasted ; but on the sec- 
ond occurrence of this kind the natives 
made a demand. 

“If you are the children of the sun, 
why do you wade the waters when you 
might go over dryshod ? How can the 
diseases of man slay the attendants of 
God? What need of food for such as 
you?” 

The Spanish ire was kindled ; a fight 
ensued ; the belief in their divinity van- 
ished from the hearts of the Indians, 
and they were a divided people. 

Pestilence once more settled on the 
Spanish camp. The Indians hovered 
near, and in their hostile state an at- 
tack was expected. In their weakness 
there was nothing to do but retreat. It 
was a severe blow to Ponce de Leon, 
but it fell no less severley on Alphonzo. 
He was about to lose all. 

One night as he lingered about the 
outskirts of the camp, he met Alta. 
She knew she was in danger of capture, 
but she was fearless. The look of awe 
was gone, and in its place was one of 
reproach. 

“Why did the white man claim to 
be devine and deceive the Indian girl 
with falsehoods?” 

Alphonzo was somewhat abashed. 

“Alta, fairest of maidens, it was the 


command of the great chieftain yon- 
der. Do not reproach me,” he con- 
tinued, “for I love you. See, we will 
go to the end of the earth together. I 
will leave all for you. Let us fly to the 
city of refuge you have told me about.” 

“How can the Indian trust a de- 
ceiver?” 

“I have explained. Does not my 
avowal prove my honesty?” 

“How do I know that you have not 
a wild rose blossom in your own coun- 
try?” 

“I swear I never have loved any but 
Alta !” 

“Ah, honey bees have their sting ! 
Can I trust you? Will you come to 
the palmetto tree within our camp to- 
night? Put yourself in my power?” 

“I will do as you wish.” 

Ponce de Leon departed in disap- 
pointment for the coast, and soon after 
for the West Indian islands. They 
missed Alphonzo, but could not see 
him speeding away with an Indian girl 
to a city of refuge. The ambitious 
young man’s mind was busy. He alone 
of De Leon’s army was to see stately 
cities. Alta, her woman’s heart bound 
up in her fair hero, only thought of him 
and how to reach a place of safety. 

The city of refuge was a disappoint- 
ment to the Spaniard. No glittering 
pinnacles, no splendid streets, nothing 
but rough lodges facing an open square. 
In his impatience he gave vent to his 
anger, which deeply grieved Alta. He 
had deceived her once, and a feeling 
of distrust rankled in her breast. What 


74 


THE PROMISED LAND , 


did it mean? Did he love her, or was 
his heart filled with some maiden across 
the sea? To his question about other 
cities she replied as best she could, but 
her words caused doubt in his mind. 
The last question was always in regard 
to the fountain of youth, and to this 
the answer was more satisfactory. It 
was near at hand, but closel) guarded ; 
only the true and brave could expect 
to see it. If no opulent cities were 
to be his spoil, surely the fountain 
of youth must be his reward. 

He wandered about the village for 
some days ; there were no guards, no 
beaten paths, nothing to indicate any- 
thing remarkable. At last she inter- 
ceded with her father. Why could he 
not make his daughter happy? Stern 
but indulgent old Tomo could not op- 
pose the girl ; he bade her do as she 
would. 

On a moonless evening Alphonzo, 
conducted by Alta through intricate 
forest paths, arrived at the mouth of a 
cave into which well worn steps de- 
cended. Two Indians clad in wolf 
skins, the heads of which hung over 
their faces, received him and grimly 
pointed to a dark recess. Alta follow- 
ed, and darkness was around them. 
After traveling a moment they could 
see a bright fire in front which lighted 
up their surroundings. The vault 
sparkled like diamonds, and was up- 
held by trees on whose stems grew 
wondrous flowers — in stone — the tombs 
of those myriads of little workers which 
centuries ago had built this land of 


Florida. 

Here opened two corridors ; one 
dimly lighted, seemingly a dewy vista 
in early morning, the other, in the glare 
of camp-fires, presenting armed men 
on either side in battle array. The 
personage who seemed to be the chief 
of this guard took a brilliant mantle, 
made of the plumage of tropical birds, 
placed it upon the maiden, and point- 
ing to the dim avenue, bade her enter ; 
glancing at Alphonzo, he grimly point- 
ed to the armed savages. The young 
man’s heart quaked with fear ; there 
was nothing to do, however, but ad- 
vance, and he rushed through the nar- 
row passage, avoiding the opposing 
spears as by a miracle, to find himself 
safe, but in darkness. 

He stood stupefied a few moments, 
then the darkness grew less intense, 
and about him he saw skeletons, row 
after row. The passage behind him 
now seemed solid wall. A light ap- 
peared a little distance in front, and 
in it stood Alta in her rament of feath- 
ers. He passed out of the chamber 
of death to reach her, and as he did 
so heard the sound of distant music. 
She turned toward him with a glad 
smile. 

“See” she said pointing through the 
branches of a stony tree, “the reward 
of the true and the brave.” 

He looked, and saw numberless war- 
riors and maidens dancing on a floor 
of dazzling whiteness, amid trees arid 
flowers of fanciful forms, upon \Vhich 
the sun never shone. 


AND OTHER TALES. 


75 


“Come, if you would like to join 
them.” 

She led the way to a grotto, over- 
hung with drooping branches of coral, 
and said, stopping at the entrance, — 

“See ! There is the fountain you 
have longed to see - a look into whose 
depths will reveal whether you are 
true or false — whether you shall pass 
on to join the immortal, or whether 
your bones shall lie in the cavern of 
the unworthy dead.” 

Alphonzo looked at the fountain set 
like a gem in a delicate tracery of stone, 
and trembled. His feet seemed like 
lead. He dreaded the revelation ; 
there was a facination in the pool, and 
yet he hung back from the gentle urg- 
ing of the girl. A shadow crossed her 
face. Was he a coward, after all? He 
drew near but involuntarily closed his 
eyes. He must have one look? 

One look was sufficient All that 
had ever been fair had vanished. Bold 
ambition and baseness only were left. 

“Unworthy ! Unworthy !” she cried. 
Alta sank down and wrung her hands 
in despair. 

She was aroused by his heart-rend- 
ing cry ; — 

“Oh, Alta, what will happen?” 

She looked at him pityingly, then 
pointed to the chamber of skeletons. 
He sank down with a moan, and all 
was silence. 

“Oh, Alta, can you not help me to 
escape? You have influence with old 
Tomo?” he said. 

“White man, my lot is with yours ! 


Can you not bear your fate in my com- 
pany?” 

“Oh, I cannot, I cannot ! Can we 
not return to the city of refuge ?” 

“The way is through blood, and it 
would be a disgrace.” 

“Let us fight ! Let us fight ! For the 
love you bear me lead me to the city 
of refuge and help me to join my coun- 
trymen !” 

“White man, I have loved you, and 
for that affection I will help you to es- 
cape or die ! Come !” 

At the entrance of the avenue by 
which Alta had come lay some stone 
hatchets. She took one and handed 
one to Alphonzo, then silently led the 
way. When they reached the ante- 
chamber she sprang forward with the 
agility of a cat, felled the unsuspecting 
sentinal, and rushed into the dark pas- 
sage, followed by Alphonzo. The as- 
sault was a complete surprise ; for a 
moment all was confusion : then com- 
menced pursuit. The outside entrance 
was unguarded, and they gained the 
pathway to the village. The Indian 
girl, fleet of foot, could easily outrun 
Alphonzo, but she helped him on. 
When he was safe from pursuit she bade 
him adieu. 

“White man, good-by ! May you 
reach your far off home ; but for you 
there is no fountain of youth, and your 
bones, like mine, must lie for untold 
age^ in some cavern of the unworthy 
dead ! Now I go back to my doom.” 

The chronicles of man do not relate 
the after life of Alphonzo, but what- 


THE PROMISED LAND . 


76 

ever it may have been, he must have seems to have gained immortal life, for 
been haunted by that saying of old, even yet, among the fugitive Seminoles 
“Greater love hath no man than he in the everglades of Florida, may be 
who lays down his life for his friend.” heard her story. 

Alta, contrary to her expectations, 


A SLAVE OF BACCHUS. 


An old schoolmate and myself were 
walking one of the streets of Boston in 
the year 1883. In passing a large 
hotel my companion laid his hand on 
my arm and said : 

“Listen !” 

In a moment I became aware that 
some one was playing a piano with 
great power and exquisite tenderness. 

“Who can it be?” I said. 

“I will show you,” answered my 
companion. 

We went down a side street where 
we had a full view of the bar-room, and 
through the window saw at the farther 
end a middle-aged man with bloated 
face and disheveled hair, sitting at a 
piano. His head was thrown back, 
and he scarcely seemed to look at the 
keys ; he was not even looking at the 
wall before him ; but away beyond, be- 
yond the city around him and the sky 
above, into the realm of fancy. 

“Who is he?” I asked again. 

“I will tell you when we get to our 
room ; but let’s go in and hear him.” 

He played awhile then stopped and 
burst into tears. His companions 


crowded around him to persuade him 
to sing to them, many of whom would 
have been crazed with 'drink but for 
the magic influence of the player. In 
a little while he seemed to regain 
his will, and after a prelude broke out 
into a strong, clear and sweet tenor. 
It was a ballad he was singing. He 
seemed to put his whole life into it, 
and the pathos brought tears and sobs 
from many of his hearers. 

During the second verse tears be- 
gan to roll down his own cheeks, his 
voice was choked with sobs and at the 
end of the fourth stanza he was unable 
to proceed. He was dragged away to 
a couch. 

'At this juncture we hastened out. 

We went through the streets in 
silence, each busy with our thoughts of 
the wonderful singer. At last, we 
reached our room. When we had 
donned slippers and dressing-gowns, 
and had sat down by the open grate, 
I sued for the promised tale ; but my 
friend seemed disinclined and gloomy. 
It was a sad sight to see so talented a 
man reduced by strong drink to almost 


THE PROMISED LAND , , 


78 


the level of a brute. 

We were silent for some time when 
I broke the silence again by asking 
who he might be, and where he had 
become acquainted with him ? 

My friend answered that his name 
was Patrick O’Riley, commonly called 
Pat ; that he was not personally ac- 
quainted with him, but that he had 
known of him for at least, two years, 
and hearing his story from his com- 
panions had become interested in him. 
He had accidentally become acquaint- 
ed with the father ol the unfortunate 
man, an old Irish porter, and had learn- 
ed his early history. 

Joe, that was my friend’s name, 
seemed at length to have regained his 
cheerfulness of mind, and began to re- 
relate O’Rileys history of his own ac 
cord. 

“ I will begin with the old man’s 
story of Pat’s boyhood. 

“The family came from Limerick, 
Ireland, and was among the primitive 
land-holders of that country, which 
gave them but a scanty subsistence. 
Mr. O’Riley’s family consisted of a 
dozen children of whom Patrick was 
the youngest. When O’Riley’s oldest 
son was fourteen years of age he went 
to sea, visiting America, and on re- 
turning the following year told such 
stories of this wonderful country that 
his father, and his whole family, emi- 
grated and came to this city about the 
time that Patrick was born. He has 
lived here ever since, earning a living 
as a day laborer. 


“Patrick, at an early age, showed a 
great talent for music. When he was 
five or six years old he was frequently 
hired for a few pennies, by the neigh- 
boring market- men, to sing to them. 
His musical talent became acknowl- 
edged among his acquaintances, and 
when he was ten years old he was 
employed to sing in the cathedral in 
which his parents worshiped. 

“This was a golden opportunity for 
Patrick. He was petted, praised, and 
encouraged, which resulted in a few 
years in his taking lessons in music, 
vocal and instrumental, also in com- 
position. 

“When about twenty years of age 
he began life as a music teacher and a 
singer in concerts. So much success 
did he achieve in the latter branch 
that in about a year he obtained an 
engagement in an opera and here a 
brilliant career opened to him. For 
several years the young man strove with 
his voice, and had the satisfaction of 
becoming one of the best tenors in this 
country. He also had composed some 
music, both vocal and instrumental, 
which promised to be popular. 

“About this time an event happened 
which changed his future course and 
produced the wreck you have seen to- 
night. 

“At this time he was engaged in an 
opera for a two years’ starring tour 
through the United States and Europe, 
Among the singers was a Miss Rand, 
and with this young lady Patrick fell in 
love. It was a year of bliss to him. 


AND OTHER TALES. 


79 


His love seemed to deepen and enrich 
his voice, and his passion flowed in 
graceful ballads set to the sweetest mu- 
sic. He even attempted an opera, 
which those who are capable of judg- 
ing say would have excelled anything 
evt*r before written, if it had been fin- 
ished, but it ended sadly for him, poor 
soul. 

“Before the tour was over he had 
certain proof of her infidelity to him. 
At first it prostrated him, and recover- 
ing slowly seemed plunged in apathy. 
He tried to keep up his engagements, 
but composed nothing. 

“It was then that he took to drink. 
He tried to drown the passion that 
burned within him and seemed ready 
to consume him ; he » tried to drown 
time that hung heavy on his hands and 
was hateful to him. Soon he neglected 
his engagements and obtained a living 
as best he could when sober, which was 
seldom. Slowly, but surely, he de- 
scended the ladder until you see the 
wreck of the once brilliant singer and 
poet. Only under the influence of the 
fiend does his genius rise, as we saw 
and heard it tonight ; should we see 
him tomorrow we should find either 
apathy or drunken stupor.” 

Joe paused as if he had finished his 
story, and I asked if there had been 
any endeavor to reclaim this sad speci- 
men of humanity? 

“Yes, his friends have tried but he 
has steadfastly resisted them. When 
the city missionary approached him 
he said his only wish was to die. They 


could rouse him in no way.” 

“But the girl ; what became of her?” 

“O, she still continues her old life 
somewhere, unmindful of her lover !” 

There was a pause. Joe’s eyes were 
intently fixed on the gleaming coals of 
of the fire, while mine wandered about 
the room. Finally being in no 
social mood we went to bed. 

When I awoke next morning the 
strange being of the day before haunted 
me and followed me through the day ; 
indeed, it followed me for many a day ; 
but during that time L did not catch a 
glimpse of O’Riley, though I peered 
into every bar-room that I passed. 

About a month after the gvents nar- 
rated in the last chapter, as I was 
hurrying along a crowded thorough- 
fare, I caught the sound of the won- 
derful voice. It was more broken than 
when I last heard it, and as I stepped 
into the door I noticed his features 
were more bloated and his eye more 
bloodshot than when I last saw him. 
I inquired where he lodged but no one 
knew any thing about him. 

There came another blank. At last, 
when hurrying home one night I came 
upon a crowd on the sidewalk and 
became aware that four men were 
bringing a body from an alley-way. 
I peered in among the eager throng 
of faces and recognized the disfigured 
features of Patrick O’Riley set in 
death. 

I hastily inquired the circumstances 
and was informed that yesterday he 
raved in delirium, and wandering off 


8o 


THE PROMISED LAND. 


at some time, but I knew not where. 

One day as I was passing through 
the wards, I heard a sweet voice sing- 
ing at the bedside of a dying girl. So 
sweet was the voice and so touching 
the hymn, that I stopped to listen. 
As the last strain floated away in silence 
the girl thanked her. 

“No thanks are due to me,” said the 
nun. I owe many songs to propitiate 
a wrong I once did a dear friend !” 

This life of mine among disease and 
death led me to serious thinking, and 
in these moments I was wont to walk 
through the various cemeteries of the 
city unconsciously thinking them, per- 
haps, a fit surrounding for such medi- 
tation. 

One Sabbath while walking in one, I 
was attracted by a broken shaft of mar- 
ble rising above the surrounding slabs, 
a short distance from me. I came near, 
and was just reading the word O’Riley 
when I noticed a nun weeping at the 
base, the same who had sung at the 
hospital. Then and there her secret 
became mine, and it has doubtless, be- 
come yours also dear reader. 


in this deserted alley, had died alone. 

They were bearing his remains to 
the city hall, and busy newspaper re- 
porters were looking curiously on and 
interviewing the bystanders. 

The next day, Joe and myself went 
to see this long sufferer’s body returned 
to dust. A large number of the curi- 
ous were gathered to see this last sol- 
emn rite. The charity of friends had 
robed the deceased in decent habili- 
ments, and encased the stiffened limbs 
in a respectable casket. The aged 
parents, with the brothers and sisters, 
were the mourners ; and there was an- 
other clad in deep black, who wept 
and wrung her hands as if unconsolable. 
Who this woman was, the reader may 
guess as I had to do. 

Several years had fled away since 
that sad event, and poor Pat O’Riley 
is forgotten by most of his associates. 
During this time I had become inter 
ested in a charity hospital. In this 
much of the nursing was done by sis- 
ters of charity. Among those who 
came often was a woman whose face 
reminded me of some one I had seen 


LEGEND OF SEARCH-ACRE. 


On a sandy plain in the state of 
Maine is an uninteresting group of 
buildings, too few in number to be 
called a village, known to the surround- 
ing inhabitants as Trap Corner or 
Search-Acre. For a century the farms 
stretching across the sandy plain and 
fertile meadow to a small river have 
been occupied by white people. Before 
their coming it had been the site of an 
Abnakis settlement, and this prehistor- 
ic village has been the cause of all the 
interest attached to Trap Corner, or 
whatever bustle has ever been concen- 
trated within its narrow limits. For 
many years after it was settled by 
whites, a solitary Indian woman, the 
remnant of this earlier village, was con- 
tinually turning up. She was to be 
found along the river, in the meadows, 
in the woods, and wherever found she 
was always hunting for no one knew 
what. She would appear at the houses 
to ask for a night’s lodging, but on no 
account would she occupy a bed, and 
when the inmates arose in the morning 
she would be gone. No one knew 
where her home was nor how she lived. 


At first she caused some uneasiness — 
perhaps she would murder them — but 
at length this suspicion was quieted 
and she became a curious and even 
looked for visitor. 

At the time of her first visits she 
was about thirty years old and rather 
vain of her good looks. Nothing pleased 
her so much as to get a peep into the 
white man’s mirrors. She improvised 
mirrors of her own in the clear springs 
round about, and once when she was 
surprised at one of these ; decking her 
hair with flowers and otherwise im- 
proving her appearance, she exclaimed 
with something very akin to tears in 
her eyes ; 

“Young Molocket once, old Mol- 
ocket now !” 

What this exclamation of vanity meant 
was long a mystery to the people of 
Trap Corner. 

Still the continued hunting, went on. 
One day a hunter passing over a neigh- 
boring mountain, heard a low moaning. 
He could not tell whether it proceeded 
from an animal or a human being. He 
could not tell whether it was a cry of 


82 


THE PROMISED LAND. 


distress or alarm, so singular was the 
sound. He followed the moaning un- 
til he came to the top of the mountain 
where he discovered something crouch- 
ed near a large rock. Tiptoing 
along he found it to be Molocket 
on the ground. Before her was spread 
out a motley collection of silver and 
gold coins, silver spoons, bits of quartz 
and trinkets of various kinds. She was 
praying that the Great Spiiit would 
restore her riches that she might 
ransom her long departed lover. 

'Phis started the story of riches 
hidden, and gave the vicinity the name 
of Search-Acre. Some were so cred- 
ulous that they searched vainly about 
the banks of the riv 1 and the mead- 
ows for the supposed treasure. The 
sly Molocket was watched. Some even 
went so far as to follow the Indian 
woman as she slowly and reverently — 
for the Indians believed that the Great 
Spirit had his dwelling place on the 
mountain tops — climbed what has ever 
since been known as Molocket moun- 
tain. Some surprised her secret hoard- 
ing place in her absence and observed 
the curious English workmanship of 
the trinkets and the early dates on the 
coins. 

This went on at irregular intervals 
for many years, but the people seemed 
no nearer the great object of their 
search. Molocket grew wrinkled and 
gray and moaned more than ever when 
she saw her likeness because she had 
once been young. At last she fell sick, 
she no longer had any hope of ransom- 


ing her lost friends and lover, and she 
d ragged her weary limbs to a local 
practitioner nicknamed “Dr. Digeo”. 
This man had been very kind to her 
many times, and besides he was a 
“medicine man.” But Molocket could 
not live and as she went down to the 
dark river, over which she must cross 
to enter the happy hunting ground, her 
lost lover and friends appeared to her 
to becken her on. Wishing to repay 
“Dr. Digeo” for his kindness and hav- 
ing nothing with which to do so, she 
made him a disclosure somewhat as 
follows : 

“At the time of the Revolutionary 
War the braves, who lived on the site 
of Search- Acre made a successful raid 
into the frontier towns of Massachu- 
setts and returned laden with spoils, 
including a large amount of gold and 
silver money. Their success led them 
to plan another on a larger scale and 
all the males capable of bearing arms 
painted themselves in their most hide- 
ous manner and bidding their wives 
and sweethearts good bye, went away 
on the war path. Long and anxiously 
the women waited, but the painted 
braves never returned. At last bury 
ing their treasure beside the river and 
marking the place with a pair of steel 
traps nailed to either side of a large 
hemlock tree, they departed to hunt 
up their missing husbands and sons. 
They never found them. They wan- 
dered on, their numbers diminishing 
every day, some by the rifles of their 
implacable foes, the white man, some by 


AMD' 01' HER TALES. 


83 


disease, and some despairing begged to 
make a home with friendly tribes. 
After long wandering Molocket, the 
sole surviver of the tribe, returned to 
the site of their old village, crazed with 
the thought of her solitude and the in- 
tense longing for her friends, she 
thought of the treasure. Oh, if she 
could only ransom her lover with it ! 
So much she thought concerning it that 
she really began to think she could and 
the idea *ook full possession of her 
poor crazed brain. In her absence a 
fire had run through the woods, the 
woodman’s axe had laid a portion of it 
low and she could not find the spot. 
Years she spent looking for it, growing 
so old that she despaired of her lover’s 
knowing her, could she succeed in ran 
soming him. 

But it was all over now. Poor Mol- 
ocket was laid to rest and “Dr. Digeo” 
took up the search. So much he hunt- 
ed, and so long, the crooked sto- 
ries he told concerning his wander- 
ings, raised quite a scandal. Some 
said that he had loved Molocket, some 
said she had bewitched him and had 
bequeathed to him a part of her crazy 
mind. Years he hunted and at last, 
like her, he lay down to his last sleep. 
A burden lay on his spirits only to be 
lifted by imparting the secret of Mol- 
ocket to a third party. 

The later generation was incredulous. 
They openly told the secret of “Dr. 
Digeo” and laughed at Molocket. 
Nevertheless they hunted. Their 
search, however, was in vain, the ex- 


citement subsided and the tale was told 
only around the winter fireside. Oc- 
casionally some young man in a sham- 
faced way would hunt a little, but with 
no result. 

As the years passed the whole mead- 
ow was cleared of trees and waved with 
grass. One spring a couple of men in 
plowing struck an old tree buried by 
the fertile soil washed on bv the waters 
of the river in its annual spring freshet 
and disclosed a steel trap of quaint 
English make, which had been com- 
pletely covered by the wood in its 
growth. One exclamation came from 
the men : 

“Molocket’s trap !” 

The tree had fallen within the mem- 
ory of the man. It had been a large 
hemlock which a hurricane had felled. 
1'he plowing was neglected, spades 
were brought and the men began to 
dig. When the tree was exhumed and 
the opposite side cut into with an axe, 
another trap was discovered entombed 
beneath thirty annual rings of wood, 
to say nothing of those rotted off by 
contact with the damp soil. 

The traps were exhibited in the store 
at the Corner and the story of Mol- 
ocket revived. Hunting again be- 
came the order of the day, and nearly 
all the meadows adjacent to the fallen 
tree was dug up in vain. The excite- 
ment again died away to be occasionly 
revived when a stranger would arrive 
at the place and ask to see the traps. 

The farm on which the treasure was 
supposed to be buried exchanged own- 


s 4 


AND OTHER TALES. 


ers several times and at last one of 
these became suddenly rich without 
. showing any visible means of attaining 
it. Then the story was revived at- 
tended with the usual excitement. He 
had found Molocket’s treasure, they 
said. Be that as it may they have 
never been satisfied on that point, and 
still have irregular periods of hunting. 


Trap Corner has somewhat decayed, 
as all agricultural communities have of 
late, but still commands a degree of 
interest not attained by neighboring 
“Corners,” and when the wind soughs 
through the valley in winter, shaking 
the loose blinds, the people declare it 
to be the moaning of Molocket’s spirit 
and the rattling of her traps. 






















































































